


Sunrise in the Fall

by telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [57]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Asexual Character, Combing, Empire Building, F/M, Fourth Age in Mirkwood/Eryn Lasgalen, Gen, Gender-blind elves, Generations of elves, M/M, Original Characters - Freeform, Power-struggles, building allegiances, elves are weird, elves can change, invention and industry, quiet revolution, subtle use of propaganda, weird elves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-14 14:16:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 26
Words: 67,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5747542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Red Star Rising.<br/>(begins <em>during</em> the epilogue)</p>
<p>Over one hundred years into the Fourth Age, Eryn Lasgalen has a new King. Elves change, in some ways, yet they are still elves, still haunted by the past, by all that they have ever been. </p>
<p>Part (the longest part) of the Three Houses sequence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_“I anor ler pelol benidhrinth thintha brûn_  
_Adh eraid vyrn a tol……”_

Caradhil is unaware of his song, as elves tend to be. He is concentrating, reading still does not come easily to him, especially reading these letters – and oh the irony of it, that the runes of the dwarves would be simpler than this perfectly formed tengwar – at least, he reminds himself, there is nothing written in the tongue of his childhood, nothing in Silvan. That – that, were he to see it written, he would be hard-put indeed to make leaf nor root of it.

He sighs, shifts slightly in his chair, and the waiting elf takes the movement as a sign it is safe to enter.

“My lord King,” and Caradhil must remember that is him, and he must look up, and respond, and be dignified – or as dignified as he can – and – oh what does this elf want now? Can none of his new subjects manage anything alone, unsupervised? Oh, my King, my King, how we depended on you. But the elf is still speaking, and now he has missed some of it, “ – and so, it is some time since he was last here, but the King would always see him first, and – and so – my lord?”

Caradhil makes a gesture, and supposes, somewhere at the back of his mind, that all the years of watching, watching, watching his King were not wasted, now that the gestures to bring, come, go, do this, do that, come so easily to his hands.

The elf – and he does not, at this moment, recall his name – retreats, and leads in – leads in – of all elves – one Caradhil has not seen these many years, but is not like to forget.

He forgets he is King, forgets the behaviour the crown has been trying to impose on him, he rises, and greets the other with touching of ears,

“Arasfaron,” he says, “Arasfaron, I had supposed you sailed – or – gone. What – where have you been – what do you now?”

Arasfaron returns the touch – for he cannot quite find it in himself yet to forget the days when Caradhil was but another hunter, one of his group, one who came perilously close at times to insubordination – yet never quite stepped across the line. One who was forever welcomed at Halls by many wishing to feel his hands and comb, one who was often glad to leave, to step away from those who asked more than he had to give.

“Ah,” he says, “so. You have not heard of my elves? My Shadows of the Forest? The King’s eyes and ears?”

Caradhil looks at him, and many, many things begin to make sense.

“Rumours,” he answers, “rumours only. Ways the King always knew everything of every elf. Ways the King knew of things he would have different – and saw that they were,” ways, he thinks, but does not say, in which my King knew a Silvan had come close – so very close – to being offered a prince’s comb – and that he knew, that he spoke words to part us changed my life forever – and in the end, cost my prince his, to pay for the love he found. “No, Arasfaron, I do not know the truth of it. I know only what the elves say – and elves talk – that, and I know that you were the one to spend so very much time at the side of the lord Glorfindel, during the Days of the Battle Under the Trees, that and I know how the lord Gimli spoke of a friendly, young, inquisitive elf, named Arasfaron, who listened to his tales of other lands during his one visit here,” their eyes meet, and he adds, “I wondered then, I who remembered you as my commander when our prince was young – I wondered what path you now trod, but I spoke not. Tell me now.”

Arasfaron wrinkles his nose in thought.

“It began – when – I do not quite recollect the year – but – when I found I had been at the Halls long enough to marry, and have an elfling on the way, and – I wished to go out on patrol no longer,” he looks at Caradhil defensively, but Caradhil nods, no, he could not have borne to go out on patrol and leave an elfling behind – oh my daughter, rule our elves for me, oh my son, where are you, come home to me – and gestures for more, 

“The King – you will recall the King did not comb?”

Yes, indeed, Caradhil recalls that.

“That was how it began, reporting combing gossip, talk around the fires – I think he had always had people come to him, but – very – spontaneous. With me – it became a system, other elves began to be – involved. And then – we needed – as the dark closed in – we needed to know of other lands, and so – it was good to have elves ready to travel, to send back reports, to live among strangers and keep us informed. And – when others came here – yes. That was often my task. To keep them company, play the youngster, listen to them, learn their thoughts. And – when necessary – take information back to the King.”

Caradhil nods, and waits.

He is learning that with these elves waiting is the best way. These elves are – atuned to a different style of leadership from those of Ithilien. 

“And so to now – now I come back from the borders – I have been making a round of those stationed on the borders – and I find – my King is no longer here, and the elves tell me you are now my King.”

There is nothing as outspoken as a question.

Caradhil sighs.

“I am, yes. My King – my King commanded me to wear the crown, carry the sword. Why? – you do not say it, but I can see it is in your eyes, as it would be in mine – I am not sure – I suppose – because – because I ruled Ithilien these long years. Because I came to him and said – go. Sail. Find your love again,” he shrugs, he has learnt to speak the words without recalling the pain, the ache behind them, “perhaps none of you said that to him. Perhaps – perhaps he hoped his sons would come and say it, but they did not.”

Their eyes meet, and noses wrinkle in silent acknowledgement that it is as well that those sons did not come and say it. Never have Silvans risen in anger against Sindar – but – they might have for those princes. 

Arasfaron knows he would have worked for such a thing.

Caradhil knows he would have provided all the aid Ithilien could.

“Anyway,” he says, “why is perhaps less important than – what now? Will you work for me? Or – you are doubtless due some leave, I know you, Arasfaron, ever you worked more days than any should. Or you could go to Ithilien, cast in your lot with my daughter. I think you will not go to Lorien, and they tell me Imladris is not – not like to last. Or you may have contacts among mortals – where would you be welcome, I wonder?”

The other shrugs,

“I would like to think I would be welcome many places. If you are asking – where have I elves – then – many places. No, Caradhil, I remember you, and I have seen your elves and heard tell of your Ithilien. I will stay where I am – you will be glad of someone to explain the Forest Shadows to you – someone to bring you gossip. And, dare I say it, someone to help you with the skills I know you do not have.”

Caradhil places his hand over his heart, brings it forward in the old gesture,

“I will indeed be glad of your elves, and your knowledge. But – Arasfaron – it may not be so very long, in the count of elves, since I left here, a plain Silvan hunter, warrior at need, group leader in the absence of my prince, but – it has been a long time for me. The skills you mention – you think I still barely read, write slowly, speak but quaintly in Westron, need touch my braids to understand numbers, and have no knowledge of trade, of diplomacy, of the many, many things a kingdom requires to remain strong. I have changed, Arasfaron,”

Caradhil stretches his arms, folds his hands behind his head, drawing attention to his hair in its unusual braids, braids that tell of an unconventional life, hair that is coloured with plant-dyes, arms that bear inkings, and as he leans back a little, he knows the light catches on the jewel in his nose,

“I learnt much from the dwarves of Aglarond, much from the Men of Ithilien, and much – much I had to find out myself. I built a kingdom where there was supposed to be a small encampment. I built a colony, a land of elves, as populous or more as this now is, where there was supposed to be a group of – plant-growers. Do not misunderstand me, I will value your knowledge, your help, but – you will no more guide me than you did our King. I am not a cipher. I am Elven-King of this Woodland Realm, and I will rule here.”

He stops, and sees that Arasfaron has understood. Sees respect in the other’s eyes, surprise, but not distress. Judging the moment, he smiles, with all the charm he can command, and adds, “In one aspect I am very different to our King. I find my own gossip. I comb. In that I am not changed, and Arasfaron, I do not know the terms of your vow, but – if it were possible to comb with you and your Shadows – I would greatly like that this eve?”

Arasfaron smiles. Despite himself, he is flattered, he feels an urge to accept the offer, to exchange combs for a time, to listen to that voice, feel those hands again. 

No. He is married.

But doubtless by morning his Shadows will be the most fervent supporters of this new King.

Caradhil may say he has changed – but in some things, he is as he ever was.

 

 

 

 

 

 

News from other lands is welcome, and indeed necessary. Caradhil had forgotten in the years away, the years when he has learnt to rule, how very little the Forest provides. Oh, they call themselves wood-elves, they are Wood-elves, they love their trees, and would not change a thing but – there is more need for trade here. 

Funny, he thinks, how you forget these things. You rewrite your own history, because you do not wish to think of a market in Dale, you do not wish to remember a time when Men were strange and curious, when dwarves were unknown, when – when you were a light-hearted, innocent – was he ever innocent, he supposes he must have been – elf, with nothing much on your mind but song, and stars, and – and combing. 

When you still believed there was love to find someday, yet doubted your own ability to vow to any.

When you did not carry this ache inside you.

And so you forget the seasons poling rafts to Esgaroth, you forget the trade agreements, you forget the power the Elven-King has in these parts.

Now it is time to learn it all again.

Of course, speaking to the Woodmen, the Men of Dale, the Men of Esgaroth is not so very different from speaking to the Men of Ithilien.

Men are Men, easily persuaded, easily read, their faces showing all their thoughts, signals as clear to read as any elf’s ears. Besides, any clause that is not well-formed, any agreement that displeases – can be changed soon enough. One thing he learnt long ago, though he allowed himself to forget it to his cost. It is not worth becoming overly involved with any of them – there will be a different one along in a few seasons.

Dwarves – dwarves last decades. But – even so – they are predictable. Amazed that you know the forms, the correct way to speak, the customs, the time to speak of nothing, the time to serve food, the time to serve drink, the way to acknowledge them. Confounded by an Elven-King who remembers their children from one visit to the next, and asks after them, and thinks to offer small gifts – nothing valuable, simply the kind of trinket a child loves to receive when a parent comes home from a journey. Oh my daughter, oh my son, never did I leave you until now – and I – I miss you so. And so – it is easy enough to charm this race also.

Arasfaron’s Shadows are useful, their information makes life simpler, of course.

As for the chatter of elves, the combing-gossip – that comes naturally to Caradhil. The hours passing from one group to another, the plying of comb, the movement of hands, the singing, the talking, endless talking – words to charm, to reassure, words to build friendship, trust, words to – to persuade.

Words to bind supporters to him.

Words to tie his elves – they will be his elves, they will, it is what his King asked of him and so he will do it – tie his elves to him in loyalty, in trust.

At first, he does not change anything.

Time enough.

There is always time enough.

After all, he is not going anywhere.

Not anymore.

Time enough for these elves to become used to their new King, their Silvan King, their King who combs with them, listens to them, and – acts, sometimes, on what he hears.

Time enough for some to ask – your hair, your jewels, your ink – what does it mean, how is it done, why, your song is different – why, are the rumours we heard true, are elves – can elves – can elves be other than we have always been?

Caradhil smiles, he answers, in words that can be repeated harmlessly – and, he knows, will, endlessly, elves being what elves are – it means nothing, it is for decoration only, colours, patterns, names of children – or of loved ones, and the raised eyebrow draws flushed ears, and downcast eyes from many – this is how they sing in Ithilien, it is more – Silvan, less influence from other elves. This is our time, the time of the Silvan, did you not know?

The age of the Noldor, the Sindar is ended. 

They are leaving.

We – we stay.

And his elves begin to believe him.


	2. Chapter 2

Arasfaron comes to him – and brings another elf.

An elf Caradhil has not met before.

He must be – perhaps of a similar age to me, perhaps a little younger, he thinks, yet I do not know him.

Again he thinks – how is it one forgets? One forgets that this realm was once so large, so spread out, one becomes used to it as it now is, to the palace that has now echoing silences in place of thronging masses. Because if I were to let myself remember, I should begin to count the deaths, to recall the battles, and the cost, the price we paid, the blood spent here that other lands – Noldor lands – might be safe – and my prince never liked to hear me speak like that – so I learnt not. 

Because if I were to let myself remember, I should begin to count the sailed, to recall all those ships that left my land, my Ithilien, and the elves that went – and – and I cannot bear to think of the first of those. My heart aches with the loss, with the knowledge that never again will I see golden Sindar hair and feel that joy within me.

And so – this realm is smaller, those who I never met have become important, have come in from the outer reaches, and – and who is this elf?

“This is Hanben,” Arasfaron states, as though the name alone should be enough, then sighs at Caradhil’s lack of recognition, “have I not mentioned him? Have you not met? No. I suppose not,” he twists his mouth, in a way Caradhil has come to recognise as a lack of patience under great provocation, “Hanben is not one for combing, nor for hunting and weaponry. Hanben is – one for thinking, and tinkering, and trying to – change things which need not changing.”

Ah.

You do not like him, then, Caradhil thinks, watching both elves. Hanben stands tall, proud, disdainful – yet, Caradhil thinks, there is that something in him which cries out to be recognised. 

Caradhil waits.

He makes the elegant gesture to continue, and Arasfaron speaks again,

“So, elf, tell my lord king what you have in your hands. Explain yourself.”

Hanben looks down at the papers he carries, and then up at Caradhil.

“It is a – a way of catching the water – rainwater, but I suppose if one could use water from the River that would be as good – and heating it and then – releasing it as warm rain – for washing – I think – someone said Noldor have such things, and I wondered how – and – I thought – it would be pleasant –“

He stops, as though he remembers to whom he speaks, and Caradhil holds out his hand for the papers.

There are diagrams, beautifully drawn, and labelled, and notes, and ideas, and – it is a long while since he has seen such things.

It is strange to see such things in his own language, his own letters. Almost it seems wrong. The surprise slows his reading for a moment, but – the script is beautiful, so much more – right – than the effortlessly clear and rigid runes ever felt.

Still, it is strange to see such practical devices drawn with that eye for style, for beauty, for – for the curves one finds in nature – that dwarves never seem to have.

Oh my friend Droin, where are you when I need you? I do not know what to make of these. I do not know whether such things might work, or this, this wheel, that the River seems to turn – would that power – what is this? I do not know – I cannot think this way.

I have not the mind for this sort of thing.

And you are dead my friend, and I will never see you again, never hear your voice laughing at me, calling me ‘Master elf’, teasing me for my slowness, my clumsy fingers when in your workshop. Never read your letters explaining devices, schemes, ways of doing and making and living, explaining things I could not ask any other, and laughing at my ignorance even as you enlightened me.

Who knew a dwarf could say such things to an elf and be so right?

Who knew I would ever come to miss one of Aule’s children so?

Caradhil comes back to himself, he has been staring, lost in thought, to see Arasfaron is on the point of closing the door behind this Hanben.

“Hanben,” he calls, “have you travelled much?”

The other turns and looks at him,

“No, my lord King,” he says, and sighs, “I am not proficient with any weapon. I am sorry. I will not trouble you – please, my lord, do not send me from the Forest.”

Caradhil opens his mouth to say nothing was further from his thoughts, when he pauses. Perhaps gratitude would be greater after a little – anxiety. He blinks, slowly, and lets Arasfaron shoo the other away.

“I am sorry, lord,” he says, approaching the desk, correct as always in his formal address, even though they two are alone, even though he remembers Caradhil long, long ago, “he is persistent. I have found it is best to allow him to speak to the King from time to time, show one of his jottings, and then – send him away.”

Caradhil frowns,

“Send him away? There have been other such – ideas?”

“Yes,” Arasfaron sighs, “endlessly. He is always coming with – oh the Noldor, the Men, the dwarves, have such and such, why cannot we do this, would this not make life better, or faster, or more leisurely – always my King would say No. This is not how elves do things. We have not done such in all the years of elves, of this Kingdom, it is not the Silvan way, we will not change now. Change for the sake of change is no good thing, he would say – every time – yet – still the fellow comes, every few decades.”

Caradhil nods, and looks again at the papers.

“I am not Thranduil,” he says, and is proud that there is no tremor in his voice, “I have done, will do, many things that are not the old Silvan way, yet I am no less a Silvan for it. Bring me the papers he has – left – here previously. I would look at them.”

He knows Arasfaron. The elf is not one who can destroy any writing. He will have it all hidden away somewhere.

“My lord,” Arasfaron begins a protest, “my lord, is that wise? I do not think –“

“On the contrary,” Caradhil finds himself saying, softly, gently, hiding the steel, “you think much, Arasfaron. And I do not always require you to do so. It was a simple request. Would you like me to make it a command?”

The look of shock on Arasfaron’s face is almost worth it.

But when he has left, to fetch these papers, Caradhil takes off the crown, and looks at it for a long moment.

I am not he. I will not be he. 

I am Caradhil.

I may be King, but I am not Thranduil.

Even though I am so very alone.

 

 

 

 

It takes Caradhil many days to read through all these papers – after all, it is not as though the kingdom can be left to govern itself while he does so, and besides, for all his words to Arasfaron he has never been an elf for reading, not by choice – and oh my daughter, how I miss your competency, oh Meieriel, how I miss your intelligence, your speed and fluency with this writing, your mind that would have seen so much quicker than I whether these scrawls are worth anything, but above all – oh my friend, my Droin, how I miss you, need you as I needed you when Ithilien was young and still to be brought into my hand – he rubs a hand over his eyes, fighting the impulse to give in to loneliness, to need, to retreat to – to the one room in all this palace where he is not the King. 

After all, it has not been so very long that he has been here.

He is an elf, he needs must be patient.

Tegylwen is married. She will have elflings of her own – and he will not see them, will not hold them – but perhaps one day – one day her elves will not need her – or these will not need him – and they – can meet again.

Perhaps Meieriel will come back. He sent word to Ithilien that – if she did – he would dearly welcome her return to this Forest.

Perhaps – perhaps she will miss him as he does her.

Perhaps – for all it was not love – she will consent to – be with him again. 

At least for a short while.

Anyway.

These papers.

They are indeed full of ideas, and it seems to Caradhil that some at least must work, or could work with just a little change, or would be worth trying, or – or have value in some way.

Arasfaron disapproves.

As though Caradhil cares for that, except – except it tells what many of the elves here might think.

So this must be approached carefully.

Persuasion.

Caradhil smiles.

 

 

 

 

From one combing group, one Semphair to another he goes, listening to what his elves would like, what small things would make life just a little more – pleasant. Yes, yes indeed, since time uncounted, since the days before the Sun, Silvans have been content to wash in rivers, to live as they live now, to make things by hand from wood, or not at all, but – if there was another way – it might be – they have not quite the words – a treat, he suggests, and yes, yes, a treat, like a Feast but – different. 

“It would be nice,” one elf manages, “to be – not so dependent on dwarves,”  
“Yes, for sometimes – sometimes dwarves are – “  
“are not always,”  
“not completely,”

There is a hesitancy, and Caradhil realises they know of his friendships with dwarves, his connections, Ithilien’s trade, and perhaps – perhaps some of them remember his prince,

“Speak,” he says, calmly, gently, hands busy, “words spoken at combing are sacred. None can take offence, none should remember with malice. How can dwarves be?”

They look at each other, and still they hesitate,

“I will tell you,” he says, “dwarves can be – greedy, hard to bargain with, grasping, jealous, covetous, possessive, they can see only money and jewels and care for little else. They can be rude, outspoken, overproud of themselves. They can threaten an elf’s ears and know not what they do,” he pauses, surprised himself by his words – he had not known just how deep some of that hurt ran, then he continues, “but so can elves. Oh, not the ears, but I have heard elves laugh at the thought of cutting a dwarf’s beard, and that means almost the same to them.” There is an intake of breath because – who knew? 

“Elves can be every one of those words. And dwarves – dwarves can be clever, cunning, kind, fiercely loyal, tender and loving – so loving – have you never seen a dwarf with a child – of any race – they put us to shame. But – my elves – yes. I would like dearly not to have to go begging for help when we need things which only dwarves can make. There seems little we make that they value – and I would not trade away our lands and trees. So. Yes. It would indeed be nice not to depend so on dwarves, and to have some – treats.”

“But – not too many,”  
“No, not to become soft,”  
“Soft as Noldor,”  
“City elves,”  
“Not to need such things.”  
“But – for the injured, the sick or sad, or for – treats.”  
“Yes.”

Caradhil listens, as the conversation is repeated, not quite word for word, at every Semphair group he joins.

There is, it seems, a fear of becoming – un-Silvan.

So.

Anything that is to be done must be – done in a Silvan way.

Again, he carefully, carefully sounds out opinion. What would be acceptable to most? What would benefit all?

And is horrified to find these elves – these elves take for granted that the best of such new things would go to – him.

Their King.

Even though he is not Sindar.

He had forgotten how things were in these lands. How different.

“You are the King,”  
“All belongs to you,”  
“Every jewel, every tree,”  
“Every elf,”  
“Everything in this land belongs to the King.”

So that is another thing that needs changing.

Another thing to rebuild, to recreate, to find a way to persuade reluctant elves to accept. 

But – he is so tired.

And that there is now none to praise him, none to see what he has done, none to – to touch his ears, and comb him – him, Caradhil, Finbonaurion, not merely the King – he supposes it is as well that there is at least none to see when he retreats behind that one door, that door which shuts out so much of the world and leaves him, for just a short while, able to – dream, as only elves can dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hanben appears courtesy of Wynja2007, whose creation he is - although this is a Hanben who has lived a different life, in a different version of Mirkwood/Eryn Lasgalen, from the original. Hopefully he is still recognisable.


	3. Chapter 3

Hanben has been sent for, and stands before Caradhil, waiting.

This time Arasfaron is not present. 

“Tell me of these things,” Caradhil spreads out a selection of the drawings, those which seem to him likely to have the most support from the elves, those which will be most popular, “tell me which of these is simple to make, which could be made and working quickly, which of these have you tested?”

He expects a certain bashfulness, a surprise to be asked, a gratitude. 

The flood of words he receives – he wrinkles his nose for a moment – is none of these. It is informative, as much about his new – what is he – he has not a word for it – advisor, he supposes, another advisor – as about the designs.

They are all simple. That is why they are beautiful.

Nothing should be complex, that would be unelven.

Hanben seems confident that given the right materials and competent elves, any of them could be made easily.

As for testing – no. That, it seems, has not occurred to him.

Caradhil sighs.

Where are dwarves when you need them?

Well, he knows the answer. They are in their mountains, the nearest ones are in Erebor, and they – they charge a high price for their work. Not unreasonably, they are skilled, but, it is time elves began to make things.

“You have not made small – scaled down – models? Tried them at all?” he asks, and then, “well, do so.”

The other looks at him, and Caradhil sees a set to his jaw,

“How, my lord King? How am I to do this? I am just a lowly clerk. I have no such materials, I have not the tools, I have not the time to do this. If I wish to eat, if I would have respect and welcome from my group, if I would carry the hope of finding one to vow with, to love – then I must work. Not at my own interest, not at these things which might – one day – might make life better for all, but at the scribing I am given, the work I was set by – my lord the King Thranduil.”

Caradhil blinks.

How one forgets.

Of course.

He runs a finger over the inking of his children’s names, a habit of which he is quite unaware when he is longing for things here to be as they are in Ithilien,

“Clerk,” he says, and he deliberately omits the name, as a reminder of status, or lack of status, “think you that you know better what you can do than your King? Are you displeased with the way things are ordered here?”

The other is silent, and looks down, studying his own feet, and then, quiet and resigned,

“No, my lord King, I am not, I do not, and – in your wisdom, do not make me leave the Forest.”

Caradhil stands, suddenly, leaning forward over the desk,

_"Well why, in Elbereth’s name, why are you not? Why do you not question this? What is wrong with you all?"_ his anger is sudden, and he shouts, but only for a moment, then he is in control again, “Hanben, I ask you, of all the elves here, you are the first to show me some spark of discontent – and yet – even you, you cannot say what you would have different. Fool. Of course you know yourself, and your value, and your capabilities, and if you are not displeased with a system that has ignored your ideas – and I am no dwarf, but I have worked with dwarves, your ideas which look to me as though they are workable, and the most exciting thing to come out of this Forest for many a year – if you are not displeased, then you should be.”

He sits, enjoying the look of shock on Hanben’s face.

“I mean it,” he adds, “and I will give you a piece of paper you may show to any who query it, you are to go, and find what materials you need – from the stores, yes, and if you need crafters, you are to find them, and you will build – what is the word – scale models, and then pro – proto-types, and you will begin to find out what works, and what does not. And in time, I will be sending others to you to learn, and you will teach them. And I will find another to do your clerking.”

He waits, watching the other.

“A proto-type,” he thinks to add, “is a first of a kind. It often shows up flaws. That is to be expected, and they can be rectified. I do not ask you to think and act like a dwarf – you are an elf, a Silvan, but – there are some things dwarves know that we can use and learn, and do our own way. As there are from Men. And,” he smiles a little, “even Noldor. But I would not have us become any of those. We are Silvan, and this is our time.”

Hanben nods, still silent, still unable to quite believe his change in fortune. Then, then he essays a small smile himself, and touches his braids,

“Indeed,” he says, and Caradhil realises he is trying to be humorous, not disrespectful, “it is known there are things you learnt from Men that made you a most unusual elf.”

Caradhil makes himself smile, touches his own braids in acknowledgement, yes, I am the only elf – almost the only elf – to have children and no beloved – and then turns to practical arrangements, to the writing of this piece – pieces – of paper.

It is only after Hanben has left, clutching his so-important permission to do – whatever he likes, pretty much – that Caradhil lets himself rest his head in his hands, and accept what he has done and said.

Oh my King. I have shouted, I have – I have implied – stated – that I like not how you kept these elves, that I will have change. Oh my King.

Forgive me.

I cannot be other than who I am, I cannot.

Not even for you.

 

 

 

 

He never speaks of it again, but it seems that Hanben, for all his apparent lack of interest in such things, is no different to any other elf. 

Caradhil finds that now, now when at combing he suggests, hints, that things could be different, that there are other ways – his elves know of what he speaks. Some – and there is no obvious way for him to tell which it will be – some are interested, eager, have thoughts of their own.

Some – many – are not. 

Of course. These elves are they who did not go to Ithilien, they who did not wish to sail, to travel, to explore, those who wished to stay in their Forest, as they had done this last Age, to live as they have this last Age. 

And when, for a moment, he feels pity for them, being led to a change in their way of life whether they will or no, he remembers – these are the elves who would have kept my King here ruling, depended upon, alone, another Age of the world or more. 

No longer. 

They cannot forever rely on Sindar.

This is the time of the Silvan, and we must stand and think, and rule ourselves.

If they want Sindar, let them go to Lorien, and see how they enjoy the rule of those two.


	4. Chapter 4

“My lord King,” Brethilwen is clearly not a happy elf, and Caradhil wonders why, and then braces himself to hear it, “my lord King, I understand – Hanben has been most excessively pleased to explain – that I am to allow him whatever materials he asks for, I am not to query his purposes, but – my lord King, I know you are like to bring new customs, new ways, and I – it is not my place to disagree, or to agree, but – I must know – how would you have such things set down in the records?”

Oh.

Yes.

She has a fair question, Caradhil realises, and so – so he must exert himself to win another over to his side.

He looks up at her, he runs his hand over his braids, as always, silently, unconsciously, reminding both of them that he is no more attached than she, and wrinkles his nose in apology,

“Do you know, Brethilwen, it is only now that I realise I have barely even looked at all your records and accounts? There have always been other things – more urgent – to see to, yet – I should not have neglected you so. I ask your forgiveness,” and he pauses, waits until she sighs, and nods, and then, “will you not first show me how things have been done here, before we sit and together find the way we wish to do them now?”

She looks at him, straight, and considering, and he finds himself reminded of Meieriel, quite disconcertingly so, 

“Indeed,” she says, and he wonders if they are kin, so alike the voice, “I think you had best come to my office then, my lord King.”

He follows, and he sits, and he listens, and he watches as she shows him how all is done, all is recorded, and then, after many hours – it seems like many hours – he asks,

“So, I know now where all is kept, and who to ask for any documents I might want, but – in essence – it is very simple, is it not? All decisions are made by the King, unless he has expressly ordered another to decide. All wealth, all ideas, all, belongs to the King. All elves are his to command, to send here or there as it please him.”

She shrugs, 

“That is what King means.”

He raises one eyebrow,

“That is what King means when the King is a Sindar,” he corrects her, “a dwarf-King – has no such powers. A King of dwarves owns his own work, and all others must not go against his rules. A decision is made by the King – but only after he has heard the counsel of his advisors, or any dwarf who has a wish to speak. A King of dwarves is paid money by those he rules for his work, his law-giving, his time in speaking with those of other races. All, all in a mine is accountable, be it time, or thought, or craft, or materials.”

He sees she is about to speak, and he holds up his hand, 

“yes, I know, we are not dwarves. Let me continue. A King of Men – he owns much, yet not all, of the kingdom’s wealth. He is like to a King of dwarves, having advisors to whom he must listen – but is rarely bound to heed. He raises – taxes – and gives justice. There are things which are not valued in money, and sometimes – sometimes these give rise to grievances, and even to rebellion against such a King.”

She is silent still, yet he can feel the question – what has this to do with us?

“I am no Sindar, nor am I dwarf nor Man – and I do not wish to have this kingdom run in any of those ways. Let me tell you how we have managed Ithilien, my daughter and I, and let us see if there can be agreement between us.”

Caradhil begins in his turn to explain – to tell of how unlike dwarves, there has been no accounting, no records of value gained, value earnt, value spent. That is not how elves are, not how they need be. There has been instead a general agreement – which we came to from long discussion, he says, and Brethilwen, who is no fool, thinks – of which you thought, and persuaded others – that all that is owned by the colony be held in common. That each elf shall be entitled to so much as they need or require – whether that be for normal living, or, on occasion, for some special celebration, or some new venture – and Caradhil’s heart aches as he speaks of the wander-lust, the journeying which took his son from him so many years ago.

“That all sounds very lovely,” Brethilwen says, and Caradhil smiles, enjoying the feeling of crossing blades intellectually, as he recognises a string of objections are about to come forth, “but – what if one elf were to be – forever wishing for more than they have contributed? How can that be fair? I like not the dwarvish insistence on a gold standard, yet, at least there is a clear way to see if that is inequitable.”

Caradhil raises an eyebrow at her, 

“Really? That is your first thought?” and watches the flush, as she wonders if she has sounded as though she would be one to take more than is her due, “no, in all honesty, I would ask that as well, did I not know the answer. We are elves. It is very easy – almost too easy – for any who is known for taking and not giving to be – shown the error of their ways. We are elves. None would wish to find themselves left uncombed, or unsung, none likes when any are hesitant to touch ears. These things need not be said aloud, need not even be consciously thought – we have found that any who is unfair to the group becomes – unwanted at combing, and soon – soon they are ready to do more than any other that they be welcomed back.”

He sees her disbelief, and he smiles, 

“I had a friend – a good friend – who was a dwarf. He taught me their system, and I – I in secret kept such records, and I watched my elves, and I found – I found that we Silvans – we self-corrected within our group. It was very interesting.”

Indeed, he wondered if that was how elves were designed to live, if that is why they have this desire for combing, for grouping, for the touch of ear and hand, the sound of song, of mingled voices. But who can know? Caradhil has never been one for why, nor indeed the how of one like Hanben, preferring the pragmatic – this works, and it is fair, and it seems good.

He waits, and she nods, and then, then she asks, and oh this is interesting indeed, 

“I can see how that might work in a small colony – no,” she corrects herself, “no, your land – I am sorry, my lord King – the land of your daughter, has now more elves than ours, yet you say this still works, and so – I must believe you. Yet – is it not that there are some tasks which none will wish to do? Then – how can any be found to do them, if there is none to say – do this, none to reward service, none to punish sloth?”

Caradhil again smiles, and thanks Eru for such an elf,

“Among dwarves, or Men, they use their accounting systems, or money, or such, so that if a task is unpopular it may be worth more. Sometimes, I am told, they have a rotation system, such that many will do such tasks for a short time, none for long. Among us – it is interesting, but it never happened. I know not why. I think – without our planning – we seemed to apply such thoughts among our group without any direction – so that if one were to take on a task that no other wanted, the group praised them, and was grateful, and so – so when they moved on to something else, there was always another ready to earn that – that combing,” he shrugs, “we are elves. We are not like the other races.”

 

 

 

 

Indeed, they are not. The talks between Caradhil and Brethilwen go on long into the night – long into many nights. Much is discussed and new plans, new systems are drafted. Agreement will be sought at combing,

“I will not begin this in any way but with the consent of all, this is not a change I can impose,” Caradhil explains,

but many things are talked through together. Often, often for Caradhil it is like – almost like – those nights, those long nights so many years ago when Meieriel was his friend and more than friend – when all he hoped and planned could be spoken of, when talk turned to combing, and combing to – other ways of showing affection. 

Each night they speak, and talk, and – and each night the work is over and yet they continue to talk, to speak for the pleasure of speaking. Each night Caradhil wonders with whom she shares her comb, and each night – he has not quite the courage to ask.

And he wonders what is wrong with him that he should feel so.

When did Caradhil ever hesitate to try his luck?

Since he became King, he supposes, King not of happy, easy, all know how it is, all know how Caradhil is, Ithilien, but of this Forest, this Forest where he is the King, not Caradhil Finbonaurion, King to outsiders, first among equals, but – Elven-King Caradhil, first of his house to rule, he who may not be contradicted save with caution, he who owns all, he who directs all, he who – he who is alone, always.

Even when he joins a Semphair for combing – he is still alone.

But to join a group – it is easy enough for any to move away, to keep their hands from his hair, their hair and comb from his hands. To ask one – it would be perhaps taking advantage. He is not sure – not completely sure – she would know she could refuse.

When once he has thought this through, he can accept it.

It is only much, much later that he realises the other, lesser danger.

Were she to accept, were he to comb with one only – what speculation would that cause?

And he shivers. I will not seem to lead any to – to care for me overmuch. I will not risk that pain, that doing of harm again. Forgive me, oh my Aglarcu, forgive me, and – and be you now at peace.

 

 

 

 

When once things are agreed – or partially agreed – between them, it is time to bring their thoughts to discussion.

To combing group after combing group, Semphair after Semphair.

Separately they do so, and the talk spreads, the changes are discussed, as only elves can discuss, over and round, and up and down, and small differences suggested and accepted, and talked over, and on and on.

Elves do not like to hurry.

But there is a gradual feeling building that this – this new – new way of doing – might work. Yes. It has worked. Those who have been to Ithilien, or spoken to others, confirm that yes, it does, it can.

And – it is not as though their King is Sindar.

It is not overturning the old order to change things.

Just – adjusting a new order. Making it fit.

Yes.

Perhaps.


	5. Chapter 5

It is among all this that Caradhil receives a letter from Tegylwen, Queen of Ithilien, a letter which encloses another.

_Ada,_ she writes, _I send you this for I would have you read these words as they came to me, I would not try to interpret them. I do not know any more than you what this all means, and I know the news may bring you grief, yet I would bid you be of good cheer. It is not the end of your hope, I know it is not, there is still the chance that for which you long may come true, and my brother return to us. As for Naneth, I think we must both rejoice in her good fortune and content. I shall arrange to meet with her when I may, when she is next at not so great a distance, and would dearly like to take word from you to her then, for ever was she your greatest friend, and friends rejoice for friends’ good fortune._

There is more, she tells of her children, of their doings, of how perhaps they will soon be grown enough to visit him without her – or, perhaps, her land will be peaceful enough that she may come to see his Forest herself, _“for ever did you speak of it as home, and I would be glad to know it, Ada dear”_. He reads it, and he smiles, he smiles though his heart aches, dreading what more he is about to read, and then he opens the other letter, and indeed, the news it contains hurts more than he knew he could still be hurt.

His son is married, apparently, to – of all things – an Avari. Some wandering elf. 

From lands he has never – will never – see.

And – has no thought of coming home.

Is wandering still.

Has been married some years.

And has not thought to bring his wife to meet his father.

Has not thought, it seems, to bring his wife to meet his mother, she tells of this merely as something she has heard.

Caradhil swallows, so, his son is an elf in love, and has no thought for anything beyond his love.

That is how elves are.

But – he wishes there was a way to know his son is well, and happy.

No. In honesty, he wishes his son had come home and fallen in love with one in this Forest.

Still.

Avari.

They wander.

Perhaps in time they will wander this way. Yes. That is the way to think of it. Much worse had he married one who was settled in those lands, one who did not think to move.

He supposes vaguely that there is a certain irony that he, the Elven-King of the Woodland Realm should receive a letter telling that his son has met, and loved, and vowed to one whom he has not met, and will find it hard to be delighted over – for really, in the count of elves, it is not so very long since he had to write such a letter to such a King.

At least his son’s love comes not with a death-sentence.

He tells himself this, and turns to the next part of the letter.

Oh.

His son is not the only one to have fallen in love and married.

Meieriel plans not to return. Several of the elves who journeyed with her will stay in these new lands, some for love of the plants, some for love of – elves. She herself is in love, has found the elf she had despaired of ever meeting. She is joyous. She is vowed, and happy, and – and all the usual.

It was not love, he tells himself, he knew that, and so did she, they never spoke of – of being together again, never combed together once their children were of age. It was but friendship, and if friends fall in love, one is glad for them. He reminds himself of his delight in seeing Brethylf married, of meeting his wife, playing with his elfling, all those many years ago – and there had been a time when he had wondered if he would, in the end, vow to Brethylf, as the other had made so plain he desired them to do. Indeed, he makes himself count, many are those with whom he has combed – not alone, never alone – but – particularly, regularly, in a way which seemed ready to move to being alone together – yet they married others, vowed to others, and always he was able to be glad for them. 

How then can he be other than glad that Meieriel, so long his dearest friend, she who saw that together they could have what they never thought to, she who he sees in his children, in their movements, colouring, words, song – how can he be anything but delighted she is so happy, so joyous?

But – it is still a lonely thing to read, when he has looked at the old crowns, made for King and Queen, and wondered, wondered if there was a chance that his dearest friend might come and sit beside him, might give him advice, and challenge him, and correct his course, and – and remember that he is but Caradhil Finbonaurion, nothing more.

Foolish, he supposes, because she would not have. She made it clear, that time was over. It was a fantasy, something that could not happen.

He shakes himself. Write the letters, one to Tegylwen, one to Meieriel, both speaking nothing but good, nothing but joy. 

And – and if you dare to dream – dream of what you truly desire.

You are not going to have any of it, so – what difference, Caradhil, what difference between the lies you tell yourself might happen, and those you know cannot?

You may as well allow yourself to spend time – just a little time – dreaming of that which elves cannot have, which elves can never have, that which no elf can do, something you cannot even fully name in your mind, something no elf who – who has kept the rules of the Valar could ever imagine, let alone desire.

After all, no-one can hear you when you are alone behind that door.

When you are King, no-one must hear you weep.

 

 

_“Cuil nin nath uilasbelin………_   
_An ech usi.”_

 

 

 

He writes the letters, he allows himself a time to mourn what is past – and he makes sure he is seen to be out and combing, and laughing and talking, and telling of Meieriel’s good fortune, of his son’s marriage. He will not be thought to be hurt, sad, cold and alone.

That is no way to be a King. He catches the thought and feels a pang of guilt, of loss, of – of a wish that elves – elves were different. But even he – curious, strange elf though he is – even he accepts that elves can only love once, love given is given for all time, and love lost is love mourned forever.

But forever is so very, very long.

And the seasons pass, the Forest changes. Slowly, slowly, the elves begin to learn what he would have them become.

Slowly, slowly, new things are made, and tried, and found to work, to improve life.

The loom does not seem that different at first. 

It is only when Hanben begins to speak that Caradhil grasps – slowly – the full meaning of this, of the cards punched with holes – of the speed of its movement, the efficiency of it. Cloth. Woven with patterns – decorated – not flamboyant, Hanben is at great pains to stress that, but – not plain. And cloth that is not slowly, slowly, handwoven, no more a luxury, something that must be treasured and mended, and hoarded. No skill required, only a little practice.

Revolutionary – if Caradhil knew the word.

But even though he does not, he knows his elves. He knows what will or will not be acceptable.

One thing above all he learnt ruling Ithilien – the pace of change must be not too slow – yet not too fast. Elves cannot be driven – only guided. Without need for slow combing conversations, he can hear the words.

“We are elves, we need not become obsessed, need not think these things more slightly than our skins,” and for once a part of Caradhil would agree with the doubters, not for anything would he have Silvans become as other elves, as mortals. And yet – and yet – he remembers years when cloth was scarce, when a hunter’s garb was basic, was repaired over and over, when an elfling had little if any protection against thorns.

“Made us what we are,” he hears them say – and he looks at them, and mentally he tallys their years. No, he thinks, no, you were born in the rich times, in times of peace and plenty. You were born to Palace servants, to those in favour. Do not speak of what you never felt.

You may have chosen not to dress as mortals do, not to cover up – but that is different, very different, from the life of one who has but one pair of leggings, one tunic, one cloak, because he needs no more, and so no more is given.

The simple life is better when you have a choice.

Still.

For now, for now, the loom will stay but a drawing, a plan. For now, there are other, simpler things. Things which – like those first rain-water-collecting-washing-chambers – bring only pleasure, and, importantly, are still crafted and made individually.

It becomes possible for elves to speak of their own worth, their own ambitions, hopes, dreams – not only for love, for combing, but for new positions, for promotion, recognition of ideas, of ability, of skill. It becomes possible for elves to choose their appearance, just as in Ithilien, though he notices that the styles and colours here are much more – muted – even as the new music – for if elves change, their song must change – the new music is different to that of his daughter’s land. 

Seasons pass, times change, and news filters in from outside the Forest. Too easy it would be to isolate themselves once more – they have now almost all they need in here, and the lives and happenings of mortals are brief and confusing. They come, they talk, they strut and pose – and – they die. It seems almost a waste of effort to keep track of them. 

But Caradhil will not fall into that trap. Too often has he heard his prince say that this is the Age of Men, too often has he heard dwarves speculate on whether elves have anything left to offer. He keeps Arasfaron’s Shadows busy, 

“Since we choose to stay, we are part of this world,” he says, “any elf who wishes not to be has the King’s leave to craft themselves a boat, sail to Ithilien, sail West. But for me – this is the time of the Silvan. There are now few Noldor left to rebuke us, to speak dismissively of our ways and cause mortals to speak slightingly also. We here, and our people in Ithilien, outnumber all other elves in these lands. We are strong, and to remain so, we must have knowledge of other races ways, and thoughts, and deeds.”

He does not speak of Sindar, though the thought of those two preys upon his mind. What are they doing in that mysterious Wood? They with those Silvans they took with them – and he knows that there are also some who have fled there, disliking his rule in the early years – and indeed, some Galadhrim still may be left, for it seems – as far as one may judge – that not all went with their lord to Imladris. 

In private, he and Arasfaron agree it would indeed be reassuring to know those two are settled, and have no hopes of returning – but it is now almost impossible to get news from the Wood, or for any to enter. The Wardens seem to have become more strict, and although that might be the rule of the children of Elrond, they cannot but wonder whether there is something more complex happening.

“You have met those – the Queen of Gondor, as she was, and the Twins,” Arasfaron says, when they are trying to divine what this means as yet another Shadow is turned back, refused entrance, his plea of distress at new ways unheard, his desire to exchange news with those he knew scorned, “what are they like? Would they be ones to work with the Brothers, or might there be something – foul – something – of the Old Days at hand?”

Unspoken is the thought – those Brothers are not constrained by normal elven mores, and the others – they are Noldor, they are peredhel. They are stained by descent with the blood of kinslaying. How shall Silvans know what to believe, who to trust, if Silvans cannot meet and comb and sing and talk with those who live there?

“I did meet them, yes. Once,” he says, and he thinks, and he remembers, “fierce they were, and proud, yet – not dishonourable, I would have thought. But – she – the Queen as was – she will be dying now. Slow but sure, for she became mortal – she cannot simply tell her fea to leave, to follow, as we would, she must wait and grieve, and feel all the pain there is – yet then she will be able to go wherever it is that Men go,” and what of you, my sweet prince, where are you now? Where is your fea? You were no mortal, to grieve and ache and suffer – yet – where are you now, and why – why do the Valar make it that I may not follow you and comfort you? “And so, I suppose her brothers – it may be they pay little heed to the world around them, caring only for her. I – in truth, Arasfaron, I did not like them overmuch, yet – they were good brothers. They were the brothers my prince should have had, kind, protective, loving.”

There is a silence, and Caradhil realises he has spoken aloud his thoughts, so what now is there to lose?

“They liked me not. They – they were horrified – as so many were horrified – by my prince’s behaviour, so unrestrained, so excessive, so – so wanton in his love, he was – and I – I would not rebuke him, would not keep him in order,” he shrugs, “my prince had fought beside them, was a known hero, and so I – I took the blame. There may also,” he wrinkles his nose, “may, I say, have been unfortunate words from me to them, for I knew little of them – we all knew little of them, what tales of other lands, other elves did we hear in this Forest in those days? – and I – when they spoke ill of my prince – and I was not in my own mind easy with what I saw – I did not know what I was seeing when he – and the dwarf – and I was young, and unused to being far from my trees, unused to a land of stone and Men – and so – I daresay I did not use the soft word to turn away wrath as I now would do. Yet – I know nothing ill of them, save that they are not patient, not ones to bear with fools.”

Arasfaron nods, not commenting on the tale, it is not his place to comment, and once more Caradhil feels – lonely – for someone who will listen, and understand, and – and say that he did not so ill.

But none in this land will speak so to the King, and Ithilien is far from here.

“Be all that as it may,” Arasfaron says, discreetly, “I think – it is said – that they are not long for these shores when once their sister dies. I think it is not the sons of Elrond, and still less the daughter, with whom we need to prepare for dealings.”

Their eyes meet, and they carefully, cautiously begin to think – if the Sindar truly rule that Wood – what then will they plan next?

And all the time, Caradhil cannot but wonder – where is my son? Will he never return to me?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter begins with a quote from the epilogue to Red Star Rising - forgive me - in order to make quite clear where we are in the time-line....
> 
>  
> 
> .

_He stands, he takes off the crown, he runs to the elf, he gathers him in his arms, he strokes his ears, he touches the elfling._

_“Taithel, ion-nin, ion-nin, who is this?”_

_And his son looks at him,_

_“This is Caradhlas, my son,” he says. “Oh Ada, I need you. We – we two are alone now. I know nothing of elflings. Help me.”_

 

Then they talk, they talk as only elves can talk, and Taithel – Taithel who is a different elf now, Taithel who is grown older, Taithel who has loved, and lost, Taithel who has seen lands his Ada never will, faced dangers of which he makes light – Taithel tells of the years of wandering, of the sights seen, of elves met.

For many months he barely speaks of his love – his wife, Caradhil hears that, at least – they were married by all the customs, married and vowed and joyous, shining as only elves who love can shine. He can hardly say her name, and Caradhil aches to see such pain – yet at the same time, he is terrified by what it means for his grandson.

Until he sees that Taithel adores his son, needs to touch him, hold him, all the time – finds comfort only there. That for all the combing and affection he himself offers – affection and reassurance for which Taithel is truly glad – there is no moment of the day when Taithel is not aware of his Caradhlas; even if he is not actually in his arms, for elflings must learn to explore somehow.

Gradually, from words let fall here and there, Caradhil begins to piece together the story of the love of Taithel and Rhawain – Tiktû and Râmpanyâ – as he learns to call them. And who knew that little Taithel had it in him to learn another tongue so easily?

“Now indeed I know she was your elf, you were hers – ion-nin, no other could have brought you to speak a language not your own so fluently,” and for once, for once, there is a smile on his son’s face as he remembers the years of struggle to become fluent even in their own Sindarin – and a momentary ache in Caradhil’s heart for that stumbling elfling. An ache also that neither of his children have ever spoken the tongue that he and his parents shared – but Silvan is too wild a language, too primitive – if elves are to survive in this Age of Men, they must be fluent and comfortable in Sindarin, the admired and respected tongue.

Still, he does not try to prevent Taithel using words of his love’s language with their son, although,

“For him to call you Tarr is charming, for you to call him Karranla as his mother-name, yuntu affectionately – that is well, but ion-nin, do not expect that he will move between two ways of naming the world, of seeing life with ease. He might if things were different – if your Rhawain were here I daresay he would – but as it is – he is growing up a Silvan, in a Silvan land – let him be as he feels.”

Taithel agrees, as he always agrees, but Caradhil sees a certain stubborn tilt to his jaw, and hopes that Caradhlas will learn enough to content his father.

For himself – he does not like to mention it, but Caradhlas is by way of being the young prince, the potential heir to the Forest – and so the more Silvan he is, the more content Caradhil will be.

 

 

 

At first Caradhil thinks there are not words for the joy he feels at having his son here, here in his arms, in his kingdom, his son and – and this new elfling, this grandson, this – this Caradhlas.

Of course, there are words. He is an elf, and of all elves, he is Caradhil. 

There are always words.

It is, he finds, a joy mixed also with pain.

Pain to see his son so low, so miserable, so – so close to fading at times.

Pain to be helpless in the face of such grief.

Oh, he has seen grief before – how not in all the years, all the battles – but – never has he cared for any as he cares for his son and been so helpless.

He remembers, long, long ago, he remembers his prince coming home from a journey, a war and being so grief-stricken – but then, then there was a way to make all well, to take the pain away. To plan, and organise, and take his prince to where there would be work to do – and then – to hand him over to his beloved, and see that – that all was truly well.

Now – now he can do nothing.

His son’s beloved is dead.

All he can do is listen to the story when it is finally told, the story of how bright, how golden, how perfect those days were, how they travelled, laughed, sung, combed, talked, loved.

How happy they were.

Taithel cannot bring himself to speak of that last journey, that ill-fated wandering that brought them into danger, that robbed him of that which he held most dear – and after the first time, Caradhil learns not to ask.

All he can do is hold his son, hold the elfling, and let the hours pass.

At first, at first he thinks his son has come – not home, this is not home to Taithel – but – to him – to die. That he will be left with Caradhlas to rear, but no.

“She spoke – when she was dying – when we knew there was no choice left – she said – I must stay with him until – until he is grown, married, needs me not. I – Ada – I must. She said. She will wait – they do not leave Mandos’ Halls you know, Avari, they do not go to Valinor – as long as it takes, she said, she will wait,” he tries to laugh, “so I had best do a good job – she is not like to be impressed if I am incompetent. But – oh Ada – I miss her so,” and he sobs once more.

Caradhil holds him again, and offers comfort the only way he knows. 

It seems combing is still allowed – that the terms of their vows did not take this from Taithel is, he supposes, something for which to be grateful. And the day-to-day caring for an elfling, feeding, singing, washing, holding, combing, touching – it all helps a little, a very little.

But oh the pain – the pain to see one’s child so.

And the horrible, despicable part of himself that cries out – but at least he had that, oh ion-nin, ion-nin, my dearest, most beloved ellon, at least you had those years. I – I would give anything to take this pain from you – I would, truly, anything – but – oh to have the memories of love that you have.

He does, at least, manage not to say it.

 

 

 

A child – an elfling – an elfling for whom he is responsible – changes everything.

Suddenly Caradhil finds it necessary to inspect the armouries, to call out the guard for practice exercises, to go to the archery ranges not merely for his own relaxation, not merely to find some group with whom to comb, but to assess his kingdom’s strength.

Suddenly he is aware of threats, of the gathering strength of Men, of dwarves, of Sindar-led Galadhrim.

Suddenly he feels a need to build defences, to close in, to hold what he has and keep it secure and safe – and secret.

Even as he makes the rounds, inspects, thinks, talks – he tells himself no. No, that way I will not venture.

This is the time of the Silvan, we will not hide away in our woods again.

Not this time.

And once more he bids Arasfaron send for Hanben. Once more, he asks questions; demands answers, plans, ways of thinking.

This I saw, this was done by dwarves decades ago, in a land where the rivers were less biddable, the wood more scarce. This we will do – you will find me a way, master Hanben, or I will know the reason why.

I made you, Hanben, I took you up from your inky smudges, your discontent, and I made you head of your own force of workers, I gave you powers of which you never would have dreamed. I let you spend time and energy on whatever you pleased.

Now, now you will do this for me.

You will find me a way to smelt iron, to make this – steel – strong and true. 

You will find me a way to produce what we need, to power the hammers, the bellows, the lathes with your water-wheels.

And you will give me the power to keep my elves safe – for my word needs not just the age-long reputation of elven archers, my word needs trade, and skill behind it.

This is no longer an age of robber kingdoms, where elves can sit in safety behind arrows and walls.

This is an age of trade, of agreements between powers.

And I would have us be – the image comes slowly to him – I would have us at the centre of it, the one constant in a changing world.

In the building of such a land, in the discussions and plans, the work and joy of it, Caradhil does not even notice his song has changed once more,

_“Enthas ermin men guiad,_

_A sa garntheg, sa garntheg, sa garntheg……”_

 

 

 

Hanben does not disappoint.

How can he?

He does not dare – and more, he does not wish to – he loves his king – as all the elves of the Forest must love their king, he thinks, for this King – this King knows every elf, combs with many, speaks to all, and cares for them.

This King looks at plans with him, and listens, and asks questions – Caradhil has learnt how to ask the right questions over the years, he doesn’t have to understand the answers, only the elf talking – and suddenly everything falls into place.

And yes, where dwarves use one process, elves – wood-elves – can use another. Charcoal can be made, and used, and charcoal means more heat, more power from less trees, which is clearly good.

And the river turns the wheels, and pumps the bellows, and powers the drop-hammers, and the lathes, and although no elf can work without music, without song – soon there are new buildings, new places for making things. Things which can be turned out in greater numbers than before.

Things such as arrows, and spears, and swords, and also cooking pots, and small knives, and wooden bowls, and drinking cups.

Things which are perhaps not as perfect, as beautiful as the old things, as things made individually by one elf – but there are more of them, and that means – well, it means much.

“It means,” Caradhil finds he must explain to Arasfaron, “it means that we have more to trade than we did before. Not just logs, but crafted goods. And you may say they are not skilled, they are not as beautiful as elves can make – but they are still more finely produced than all but the highest priced that mortals can achieve. We are elves, Arasfaron, we cannot help but be more aware of the grain in the wood, the pattern within, the strength of the steel, the weight and balance of blade. They are quicker to learn, to change, but when we try – we can outdo them. Let them grow their plants, their – crops – let them care for their animals, let them do anything in which we find no pleasure. The Forest provides food for us – but if we desire their goods as luxuries, let us buy them at an exchange that is advantageous to us,” and he sighs, and explains again, “one log is worth only so much. But that one log – we can craft into much – and then it is worth more. You are not usually so slow, Arasfaron,” and then he stops, and thinks, and yes. “I suppose it is not a way of thinking elves – Silvans – are given to,” he sighs, and then, “you might want to consider also, how many elves in our land – my land – are not currently able to possess even half what a mortal would consider the minimum of tools, household goods, clothes. And no, I have no wish to see us become like them, laden down with mine and more of mine, and even more, and yet – things can be owned by the kingdom in greater amounts, I think, without harm. It does not seem to me bad that there should be enough of such things for all. It does not seem to me to be unelven – not significantly unelven – that there should be enough woven cloth in the stores, for example, that even the most humble of elves should be able to claim a second winter cloak when the first is torn, even if it can be repaired, and reused in time of need.”

That redesigned loom is still in his mind, still waiting, waiting, and now, now perhaps among all these other new ways – now would be the time to introduce it. Caradhil smiles, the smile of one who sees long-hoped for plans approach fruition. Arasfaron’s nose flares for a moment, and Caradhil knows he speaks a heresy, knows that he is changing much.

And no, he has no desire to lead his elves into a race, a competition, a mess of acquiring and wanting – but he does not think they will.

They are elves.

They are Silvans – as the elves in Ithilien are Silvans – and to have a surplus in the stores does not make foolish mortals or greedy Noldor of them.

For a moment, Caradhil wonders where Arasfaron’s children are, whether he misses them, but to ask – to ask would be to invite confidences, questions, that he cannot bear, and so he stays silent.

Let Arasfaron come to his own conclusions about the change, the sudden determined drive that Caradhil feels and shows.

For now, he has worked and talked long enough. There is an elfling to feed, and bath, and comb.

And his son, his only, dearly beloved, returned beyond hope, son.

 

 

 

 

Months pass, and Caradhlas grows, begins to walk, to talk, to sing properly, and Taithel – does not heal, he will never heal, but – he begins to look about himself once more.

He talks of their journeys – all the journey – he tells of animals, animals, oh Ada the animals – and Caradhil listens. 

He talks of Meieriel, of her new husband, of the elves with whom she lives – not Avari, wandering Silvans. They are, Caradhil hears, good people, ready to learn what she teaches – all those who stayed with her are happy there – and her husband is a good, kind elf. She is happy with Elegathol – she will not return to Ithilien, to the Forest – she will wander on. When last he spoke with her, they were by way of becoming the leaders of their group, and Taithel meets his father’s eyes, and smiles, as he explains that is like to be the way of it, Naneth being as Naneth is. 

She has more children, Taithel mentions, as if he thinks it of little significance.

Caradhil aches, but does not show it.

He listens as his son tells him over and over of the animals, of their similarities, of what this must – surely – must mean. How they are related, adapted.

He is quite prepared to believe his son right – but it does not seem to him to matter much.

He listens to tales of all these lands, of the plants, the animals and – ever he wishes to ask – but what of the people? How do they govern themselves? How do they solve disagreements? What are they like? What ideas do they have?

But – Taithel cannot answer.

Even the people of his beloved, even the Avari – Mparu, Caradhil learns to call them – even of their customs Taithel knows little.

“We did not speak of such things,” he says, helplessly, “we spoke of the creatures we could see, of the lands we travelled, of tales, of – of hopes and dreams. We did not speak of ways to solve disputes, of leaders and governing. We spoke of ways to live – of how they do not write, do not cook, do not use the same metals as we – my knife was strange to her, talented as she was with her own. I can tell you a little – a very little – of their beliefs, their customs, their lives – but Ada, we were in love, and happy. We did not speak of such matters as interest you.”

No.

Caradhil supposes not.

How would they, when such matters – such matters are there to fill a life that has not that love, that glowing joy? At least, so it feels, though Caradhil wonders, sometimes, if – if he had ever loved and been loved – would such matters have then been something shared, something discussed? Times there were with Meieriel when they would talk for hours, finding truth through words, and he cannot but think that perhaps – where Taithel and his Rhawain spoke of animals, of the world around them and how and why it came to be – perhaps he and – and an elf that fitted him – they would have spoken of peoples, of the world around them and how and why it could or should be improved.

But what does he know of love?

 

 

 

 

Months pass, and finally his son asks the questions Caradhil has been dreading.

“Why are you here? I thought – I thought you would be in Ithilien with Tegylwen. It is only by chance that I heard you were here, that I came here. And – where is the King? Why did he leave? And why appoint you?”

Then, though it pains him, Caradhil lies.

It is, he thinks, the first time he has lied to his son.

He fears it will not be the last.

“I am here – I came here because – your sister is perfectly capable of ruling Ithilien,” Taithel nods, he had not questioned that, “and the elves here – needed a King. It was time – it seemed to us – to Tegylwen and I – time that – that the King,” he cannot say the name without giving his feelings away, “sailed – rejoined his wife. He had waited so very long – I think – he never believed any could rule but – he had seen that I could – I had ruled Ithilien so long,” he sees more questions coming, “no, I do not know why these elves needed to be ruled, but – there are no Sindar here now. Some sailed, some – the princes – are in Lorien. Lucky Galadhrim,” he ends sourly.

“Most elves like to be ruled,” Taithel says, quietly, “most people do, Ada. It is easy. And – if the ruler is one to work, to be kind – they are content, and do not question further. You are unusual – as is Tegylwen.”

Caradhil looks at him in surprise, he is not used to his son being so astute about anything that is not an animal,

“You are probably right,” he says, and then, “ion-nin, you have truly grown-up.”

Taithel shrugs,

“I do not have much choice,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Avarin
> 
> (as mentioned in the note to Taithel's story, Ada, Naneth & Other Animals)  
> We (or more accurately Palanotar) created a fragmentary constructed language descended from primitive Eldarin, which we called Pinti. Tolkien had six Avarin languages, all with one word meaning the same thing, the name of the language analogous to Quendi meaning people. We imagined one of them, Penni, developing into Pinti.
> 
> Tiktû - the name for Taithel given by his wife - means Writer, one who writes (the Avari, in our conception, being a people with no need or interest in literacy).  
> Râmpanyâ - Wild Beauty - Sindarin equivalent, which Caradhil uses, Rhawain  
> Tarr - Father, Daddy (Ada)  
> Karranla - Red-leaf (Caradhlas)  
> yuntu - son


	7. Chapter 7

Seasons pass, but now – now they race, now they speed through his fingers like leaves in an autumn wind. He has felt this before, but now – now it is worse, for this time – this time he knows how fast elflings grow, how soon it is that they need you not, they walk away to their own adventures, their own lives, leaving you to wait for news, for letters, which come but rarely.

This time the elfling is not his – he may not always comb with Caradhlas, he does not – cannot expect – to hear all the doings of his day, to hold him, to tell him tales, sing to him every night. And when it is time for Caradhlas to learn all that an elfling should learn – to ride, to hunt, to shoot, to fight, to drink – to read, to write, to tally, to talk – oh to talk, and persuade, and convince, all elves should know that – to dance, to skin a rabbit, gut a deer – then, oh then, Caradhil comes to hate these – lessons for all – that he has convinced his elves to introduce.

It is a good thing, he reminds himself, it means all elflings learn all the skills – skills he himself had to painfully, hastily acquire at the side of a dwarf – and Droin, Droin my friend – where are you now? However. It means also that between the things best taught by those who know the way to teach, and the things that Taithel would have no other teach his son – there is not so very much left.

Still.

What there is, is more than nothing.

He reminds himself this also. 

But the years pass so fast, and this elfling – he grows. 

Soon – too soon – it is Caradhlas coming to him, asking for advice, for guidance, for – for help with Taithel.

“Daerada, I would speak with you,” he says, and Caradhil turns, and puts down his pen, and pushes away the papers in front of him – what cares he for letters marked urgent, when his grandson stands before him? There is not much I have done that I am sure I did right, he thinks, but that I never, never turned away from my children, never put anything before them – in that I know I did as is pleasing to the Valar. 

“Would you speak here, sitting, or would you walk under the trees, or – or would you comb with me?” he asks, and waits, and agrees that yes, walking is much the best way to talk, much the easiest, and does not let himself remember an elfling who climbed on his lap, and demanded combing, and held on, and slept, and would not be parted from him, though trade delegations from all the lands around were come. Does not let himself wish for those days again.

They walk, and it seems they will walk far before Caradhlas brings himself to speak.

“Is it a general matter, or is there something – something troubling you, Las-nin?” Caradhil asks, and then, suspecting, “is it – is there an elleth of whom you would speak? Or – no, I do not wish to play guessing games. I am content to walk with you in silence, letting our songs twine, it is no matter to me. When you are ready, speak and I will listen.”

It has come to him that surely – surely the most likely worry Caradhlas could have is how to tell his father that he wishes to journey East, to find his mother’s people – and he does not want to hear it.

He knows, he knows too well though never words have been spoken, that the day Caradhlas needs him no more is the day Taithel will turn his face away, and seek reunion with his beloved in the Halls of Mandos. And Caradhil does not know how he will bear that pain of loss.

But it seems for a moment that he need not fear that today.

Caradhlas’ ears are red, and he keeps his eyes fixed firmly on his feet as he speaks,

“I – truly, Tarr is right when he says you know us well – yes – there is an elleth. I – I think,” now he is started the words tumble out, and Caradhil waits, listening, “– I – we – we have combed – in a group and – and we – we have talked a little – of – of more. Yet – Daerada, I – how does one know when it is love? And – and what then? What happens? What is vowing, and – and the making of elflings – and – and oh Daerada, what if I am wrong – what if we mistake our hearts? And – and more than anything – what will become of Tarr if I – I marry – and need him no more – and – she talks of perhaps leaving the Halls – not far, but – to have our own flet. And – and I would – yes – the idea of it – I long for it – at least, I think I do – but Tarr?”

Ah.

Not what he had expected.

Caradhil runs his hand over his braids, thinking, searching for answers to all that. Taithel never asked such questions, he thinks, Taithel seemed to – to just – take life easily. He sighs, he supposes Taithel never thought of love until he met – the mother of Caradhlas – and – then he was not there to ask. As for Tegylwen – she was always a most – sensible person. 

“So,” he says, “love – you come to me and ask of vowing, of marriage? No, Las-nin, if you want to know of such joy, speak to your father, write to your aunt, listen to the words of songs and tales, but – do not ask me. You know I am not vowed, I have no One in all of Arda, I am alone, as I have always been alone,” he shrugs, “you know this, so why come to me? Because, I suppose, you fear to hurt your father. Yes. Good. But – he lives to make you strong, to see you happy. If this elleth is indeed your One, if you would love her, and she you, if you would say your vows, exchange your combs – then – your father will rejoice for you. 

“And what is love, you say – as though I could answer. I think – if you wish to vow with her – if you both can look in your hearts and say that truly, there is no sunshine without the other, if every day is grey when you are not together, if the world is full of song, and golden, and all is bright and perfect when she smiles – if pleasing her – seeing her joyous makes your heart sing louder and clearer than ever before – and your world shines for her, and only her – if you think of her, live for her when you are apart, if her touch makes you tremble and – and alights your body in a way that you did not know before – and – and more – more than I have words to say – then – then perhaps it is love. 

“If she it is of whom you think, whom you would consult before any decision is made, if she it is whose approval means more than all the praise of all the world else, if she – she could ask anything of you, and you would give it – if to please her, you would do the impossible – then yes, I think it may be love. 

“If you – you would live a thousand years in her service and at the end ask only a thousand more, if you would ask for no more than to see her smile, to know her content, no more than a single perfect moment on which to build your life – and yet – were more offered, you would – would not know the words for your delight, your joy – if you cannot but believe all must see her as you do, and ache for every harsh word that is spoken of her, however slight the criticism – if speaking of her makes your breath run short, your heart beat fast, your ears flush and – and your fingers seek the comfort of your comb – then – yes, as I understand it, that is love.”

Caradhil falls silent, afraid he has said too much, afraid that after all the years of concealment he has let slip the truth of his life – but it seems he is safe. He had not reckoned with the self-absorption of a courting elf, and,

“I – Daerada, I think – you say you know little – but yes. I – yes,” Caradhlas flushes more, were that possible, and looks at his feet, and then away into the distance, his face glowing, “and if this is love – then – all things will be clear – and well – and – and I think – yes, Tarr will understand – and – will you speak to him? I – I must go and find – we must – I – I would be wed as soon as – as I find her.”

For an instant, Caradhil could curse and weep to find his heart still safely hidden, to find that – that even this so dear elf cares not, but – that is not the right response to a happy grandson. 

“I will speak to Taithel,” he says, “but – before you run away – you have not told me who – I think it would come easier if I had a name to give him?”

He suspects he knows, after all, he has still Arasfaron’s Shadows reporting to him, but – he is glad to hear the confirmation, his guess is right, and he watches his grandson dart away, as elves can, and pulls himself straight. Now is not the moment to weep, to wish for time to think on the words he spoke, now is the time to go to his son, to hold him, to make him understand that – that he cannot leave now, or he will truly hurt Caradhlas. He must endure a little longer.

Beyond that, Caradhil does not let himself think.

 

 

 

The conversation goes much as Caradhil feared. Taithel is somewhere between delighted at his son’s news, and distraught at the loss of his place in his life – and as ever, he sees not the irony that it is in Caradhil’s arms he weeps – but beyond that, he speaks over and over of how – if he is needed no more – he may go – to his wife, his love, his beloved one – at last, at last, he says. Caradhil wonders if he is being selfish, if it is truly Caradhlas of whom he thinks when he says,

“No, not yet, you cannot yet – think how he will feel – to have his marriage, his golden time linked with your death – you cannot do that to him – and – and will you not wait a little longer, just a little longer, ion-nin, please, think, will you not take news of your grandchildren to your wife? Think you not that she would wish to hear of them? For there will be elflings, that was clear, he is as you and I, he is an elf to wish for such joys – and I think – although his lady is not one I know well, I think she is the same. Wait a little – perhaps a century more – perhaps less – and how much you will have to tell your dear one? Think you not – there may be a daughter – a little elleth – and how like her she might be – and remember – it is only you who can tell your grandchildren of their Daernaneth – I cannot – you – oh please, ion-nin – give us a little more time – you will have eternity – please.”

In later years, Caradhil will be ashamed of himself, but – at this moment – he does truly believe his own words and – and also – he cannot bear to lose his son again – it is not so very long since he returned, since those years when he was gone – and if this is the moment when he loses Caradhlas also – and so when Taithel begins to crumble at the thought of not leaving just yet, Caradhil takes him in his arms, and holds him, and soothes him as he did when he was very small. 

“Stay with me, ion-nin, stay with Ada,” he says, “please, ion-nin, please penneth-nin, stay with me, let me comb you, please.”

And there is not the elf created who can resist Caradhil when once he puts mind and hands and comb to work. His song surrounds them both, little though either of them heeds the words.

_"Tirin i filig reniar hâr athar uilasbelin foen_  
_A vin ab vin ti ‘wathriel_  
_Aníran goreniassem_  
_Si ech usi…..”_


	8. Chapter 8

Caradhlas is indeed married by the time his father and grandfather see him again. Very married – it has been a full turn of the moon that he and his love have been apart from others – vowed, braided, combed, and – married.

Then, for all that at times Taithel wonders why he needs stay, there are some happy years once more, as elflings come, and the Forest is at peace, and tales can be told, song sung, combs used, and – and change happens so gently that elves forget it is change, and think it is merely – the way the world is.

The children of Caradhlas come of age, one after another, and move on, out into the world of the Forest, to join groups, to make friends, to comb with one after another, and perhaps find love, or perhaps not, as Eru wills it.

Caradhil watches, and sees how the pain is still there, but – not so much. For Caradhlas and his wife, there is also a slight guilty joy in having their flet and combs to themselves again – careful though they are to insist that they look forward to grandchildren, and are always there for their children – there is a great difference from the desolation he remembers feeling when Taithel became adult, and Meieriel and he moved apart.

As for Taithel – he comes now to Caradhil, and curls beside him on the forest floor,

“I have done as you asked,” he says, and the guilt washes over Caradhil once again, “I have waited, and seen these children grow, and – and you were right, it has been a joy to me, and I shall take pleasure in the telling. But – if I go not now, there will be more weddings, and more elflings, and where does it end? Ada, I know it leaves you alone, and I am sorry, but – I cannot keep on. I need my love – I – I know you do not truly understand, but I am only half alive without her, I ache all through me – my comb is heavy in my hands – my song is always shot through with sadness – believe me, it does not get easier. Mortals say that time heals – but time does not heal elves.”

Caradhil holds him close, and looks over his bowed head into the distance,

“No,” he says, “no, ion-nin, I believe you. Forgive me that I long to ask you to stay with me – I do not – I only – will you bid your family farewell?”

Taithel pushes his head into the warmth, the familiar comfort, and nods, 

“I thought – I thought if I wrote to Naneth – she might come to Ithilien – and I could see her and Tegy-wen – and – then come home to you. I – I suppose you will not come to Ithilien also?”

Caradhil blinks, so long is it since Taithel mispronounced his sister’s name, and accepts that yes, this is an elf who needs to let go. He sighs,

“I do not see how it can be managed,” he begins, and then stops himself, he will not fail this latest test – whatever his children need, they will have from him, cost him what it may, “no, if that is what you want, I will manage it. Write to your mother, to your sister, and think what you would have. Ithilien is – is where you were born – where we were a group, we four – if that is what you want – I will make it so,” he puts a finger under Taithel’s chin, and lifts his face up, his little tear-stained face, and rubs noses, and gently, gently, strokes those so-beloved ears, and without a quiver in his voice says, “Whatever you want, ion-nin, tell me, and Ada will see it done.”

_“….A vin ab vin ti ‘wathriel…….”_

 

 

 

 

Then to Taithel the wait seems long, for letters must be sent to Rhûn, asking for Meieriel to come bid farewell to her son, letters to Ithilien, that Tegylwen expect them, letters indeed to the heirs of Faramir, that he panic not should word of the Elven-King of Eryn Lasgalen crossing his lands reach him.

_This is no state visit,_ Caradhil writes, _it is a family matter, an affair of deep sorrow to me, and grievous will be the hurt I take, hence I beg you by your courtesy to understand that I wish not to mix this journey with any state business. As ever, the ruler of Elvish Ithilien will be, I am sure, willing to meet and speak with you should there be need, and I in my turn would welcome you in my Halls, should you journey this way in later years._

But not this time. I do not wish to stand before you in those Halls where first I learnt the way to charm and confuse Men, to bend them to my will, even as I mourn the loss of my son – my son whom your forefather saw only as an heir to me, a tool in my hand. This time, this time I have not the patience and words to deal with Men.

These matters are simple; at least, simple compared to the other.

“You cannot leave,” Arasfaron does not shout, not quite, one does not shout at a King, but he speaks – forcefully, strikes his hand on the table, in a most uncharacteristic show of emotion, “the King cannot leave the Forest.”

Caradhil raises an eyebrow,

“Is this some old magic?” he asks, coolly, “or some law you have not mentioned? Or, leader of my Shadows, is there some threat, some danger you have kept from me?”

Arasfaron makes a gesture to show this is foolish,

“You know well my lord, there is no such magic, and doubtless if there were it would be Sindar and so of no concern to you. There is no law – until your changes, the King was the law – and no, there is no threat I have kept from you. Simply – the King does not leave, the King has not left these – I do not know how many thousand years.”

Caradhil leans forward, 

“Both you and I know that is a lie, Arasfaron, or do you forget a King at the head of an army, a King riding out to do battle, to reclaim jewels, to succour allies in distress? That was no prince I followed, that was my King, and proud I was to fight for him – proud we all were – to fight and die at his command. I – I lost one who was dear to me that day – do not you dishonour his memory by saying my King was not there. My King – my King spoke to me – offered comfort – as he did to all. And, now I think, where were you that day?”

Arasfaron turns away a moment, hiding some emotion.

“Where was I?” he asks then, “my King, I was here, I was left, for when the King rode out, it was necessary that someone stayed and – and kept the kingdom ready for the King’s return. So yes, your King rode out that day, those days, and – and nearly were many things changed. Better if you had followed a prince, I think, better if he had sent them out to do battle, to make their mistakes in the land of mortals, for perhaps – perhaps they would have won their honour, perhaps in their own and each other’s eyes they would have redeemed themselves. As it was, they had only scheming, and mistrust, and – and thoughts of a father who had left them behind and taken their youngest brother, as before he had left them and taken their elder, their so-loved hero – and that the youngest came back as the hero had not – that was the final end of any hope of reconciliation. For if their father could keep that one safe, why could not both father and mother keep their beloved Thalion alive, and bring him home?”

Arasfaron pauses, and Caradhil is tempted to say – but their father did not keep him safe. He kept himself safe, older he was by far than the Thalion I saw march away, more experienced, hardened by our orcs and spiders – and – when his dance failed him – it was not his father whose hand returned his knife. It was not his father who let an elf die that my sweet prince would live. Aglarcu’s blood – the blood of the only elf who ever loved me, blind though I was, little though I would have cared had I not been – his blood is not on the hands of Thranduil, but on mine.

But Arasfaron needs not hear that. Doubtless he knows – all knew – all knew and for months it was the talk of many combing groups.

“As it was?” he asks instead,

“As it was – those princes began a – I have not the words – an attempt to – to seize power. Had the Shadows not been here, had there not been some judicious – injured horses, released spiders, fallen trees – a sickness in their own Halls – and, in the end, the death of an elfling – I know not to what you would have come home.”

Caradhil swallows,

“An elfling?” he repeats, cold and sick at the words, “you said – the death of an elfling – explain, leader of my Shadows?”

Arasfaron looks at him, straight in the eyes,

“Mistakes were made,” he begins, though he seems not to look for forgiveness, “At first, at first we thought the King would not be so very long, we thought it was a mad impulse by the princes, we thought – if we could only slow them down, make them reconsider, there would be no need for more. But – they kept coming, and we knew – we knew they meant war. Not outright, not here, no, that is not their way. They would have come, and taken over the throne, and given out at first that they ruled in their father’s name – as is the way in many lands. But – we had heard their speech. They thought their father would not return, being out of the habit of battle, and alone – without their mother, his battle-partner.”

The stupidity of that takes Caradhil’s breath away, and he is silent, wondering how any two supposedly intelligent elves could have misread their father so. How could any – any – who had ever seen my King with weapon in hand doubt his prowess, his skill that exceeded any other, his grace, his clear and dancing beauty?

Arasfaron meets his wondering eyes, and shrugs a little, then, 

“They loved their mother. Perhaps that is the kindest explanation. But then – then we read their implications, their voices, faces, we heard more words – and we feared that if – when – the King returned to the Forest – he might not arrive at the Halls. We feared the desire for power that we heard in them, and we – we had not time to think carefully. They were always protected, always careful, one for the other, but – their wives were not. We had meant to make her sick – no, I will not lie to you, Caradhil, we had meant to kill her. We knew that – whatever their other faults – they are good husbands, good fathers – and so – we had no thought of harming one of the royal blood – but we thought – if the wife of Thorodwar died, he would turn back. She – there were reasons to think that she was not happy, that there had been words between them, decisions made that she may not have agreed with, and so we calculated his regret would be greater, his grief sharper than that of his brother. His daughter – she was a wild thing, unpredictable – too much time among Silvans perhaps – we never intended her to be caught up in it all – and so – I regret it now, it was unfortunate, but – it had the desired effect.”

“What did you do?” Caradhil whispers, 

“What was necessary,” the other snaps, “it had to look innocent, there could be no possibility of blame. Fungi. All the elflings are always told – do not eat fungi – but,” he shrugs, “sometimes an elfling makes a mistake. And so we knew which fungi were dangerous. We – and I shall not give you names – we mixed some of the River water – the River that brings sleep – with some of the spores. It makes for a very deep sleep at first, with dreams – but – the sleeper cannot wake, cannot be woken – and – falls from the sleep into death. Then the potion was mixed with strong wine, that Dorwinion which none but the royal house may drink or touch, and marked as a gift – a token of a desire for reconciliation – from her husband,” he shrugs again, “she was not very clever. I do not know how any of that family stayed so innocent, so trusting – she was old enough to have known better, you would have thought,” he looks down at his hands, and stretches them, “her daughter – that was not meant – she must have drunk from her mother’s glass before her ladies had realised something was wrong – it was most regrettable,” he meets Caradhil’s eyes again, “in truth, I think they did not suffer much. It was peaceful, I ensured that. Besides, had they not died, so many, many elves would have been caught in a kinslaying within this Forest. I had a duty to my King, and I saw it done. I regret the daughter, the loss of an elfling with my King’s blood was unfortunate, but the news that his wife was dead, his daughter close to the gates – Thorodwar turned, and his brother also. And after – there was no more fight in them. That is why they stayed quiet so long. The daughter was unfortunate. The wife – even now, I believe there was no other way.”

There is silence, and Caradhil feels sick. Did my King know of this, he wonders, but is afraid to ask. One so innocent, so trusting, that even though they were at odds she drank the gift, let her daughter share it – and for a long moment he wonders what her life had been. Was she so because all she had known was love and care – he has heard it said that those brothers are good to their own – or was she so because she had never known it, and yet sought it always, hoped always for one who would care for her – was she as my sweet prince? 

“So, my King, when I say the King cannot leave – I mean that the King would do better not to leave. The King may find when the King returns that he likes not all the things done in his name. My King – your King – was not like you. He was not fool enough to ask questions to which he did not wish to hear the answers. He recognised that what was done, was done. But yes, the King may leave. I have not the power to stop you.”

Arasfaron turns and walks away, for once without waiting for the gesture of dismissal.

It is a long while that Caradhil sits, head in hands, wondering what the Shadows will do while he is away, wondering if the princes – or any other – plots – wondering who will die to keep him in power.

What blood-guilt will stain his hands?

His hands.

He lowers them to the desk and looks at them long.

He supposes there is blood enough there already. If the Valar demand an accounting of him, he will give it, and hope they will understand. 

What will be, will be.

My son needs me.

Whatever the cost, I will pay it.

But, he resolves, I will take all those I care for with me, that none are at risk. Caradhlas may not like it, but he and his children will come. They will stay under my protection.

I will deal with these Shadows when I return. 

I am Caradhil.

This I will do.


	9. Chapter 9

_“..Ir arad gin and adh i fuin,_  
 _I fuin erchin_   
_Ir aorel farn o chuil, poaro….”_

Caradhil rides back to his Forest, alone, his song aching and desolate. Taithel-nin, ion-nin, oh little one, you are gone, gone and I may never again see you. What matters it that I return to my kingdom, what matters it that I have done well by those elves – I could not heal you, and you are gone – what, in the end, what matters it even that I have stayed faithful to my duty, to the trust placed in me – if I have not you, what matters it? 

Caradhlas and his family stayed in Ithilien, and while he agreed to it, thought it touching that they wanted to learn the ways of that land, know and become known by its queen and her family – he had not thought how alone he would feel. Nor how long it is since he journeyed alone – and how every stride of his horse seems to jolt the wound in his heart.

_“…Ae ci eriol ne chuil_   
_I eraid a fuin and_   
_Ir aorel athan farn o chuil poeri._   
_Pinrim naegrof trelû,_   
_Pinrim nîref…..”_

 

 

When he arrives at the Halls, he is not surprised to be greeted by Arasfaron. 

Not pleased, for still, still he has no idea how he is going to learn to live with, work with, trust one who has done what this elf has admitted to doing.

“My King,” Arasfaron says, and bows, and all is as it ever is, “will you first rest, or – or what would you?”

Caradhil looks at him, and braces himself, he runs a hand over his braids, changed once more – no longer father of two, now they say father of one living, one dead. 

“Rest?” he asks, and then, “no, well, I daresay there is work to do. But – oh you know this, Arasfaron, but I say again, not one of my family is ever to be kept from me.”

“Nor have they ever been, my lord King,” Arasfaron speaks kindly, almost gently – he has not seen Caradhil like this before.

“No, no I would hope not. It is just – I keep thinking – there must have been times – at least – I fear there were times – when I was busy – and – and he would have had to wait – at least – not wait perhaps – but – I – I would have been – distracted – sometimes – and – and now – I would give all the newness I have brought – all the customs changed – all the good – or bad – I would – for just – just one more chance to hear him – you never knew him when he was small, Arasfaron, he would talk and talk – always – animals, animals – and – I cared not – oh I cared for him, I did, so very much – but – and then here – he would come when I was working and sit – and – just sit. He was a great one for sitting quiet. I never really knew what he was thinking – and – and I cannot now ask – and I – I miss him,” Caradhil passes a hand across his eyes, and shrugs, “stupid of me. It is not as though it is a surprise. We talked – we said all there was to say – I know we did – but – he was my son. And I loved him – and – and that he had none other – oh, do not listen to me. Find me work, Arasfaron, someone told me once, work – work is where you bury yourself when friends are gone, when love is beyond reach, when children do not come – and he – he is dead now too – but he was right. In all this land, leader of my Shadows, there must be something that needs me?”

Arasfaron reaches out, and, reminding himself this King will allow such liberties, places an arm around him, and walks him to his study, his desk, and once Caradhil is seated, he sits himself also, and brings out papers. Papers to read, to sign, to think on, letters to approve, agreements to seal.

Not that much, really, but it can be made to feel so.

And then, of course, Caradhil reminds himself, it would be good to pick up his bow again, to go to the archery grounds, and shoot, and shoot until he is truly tired. Perhaps even join a group – not by planning, not from thought of whom he has not spoken to recently – but – by chance.

What of it if none of the elves around him are those who remember him as he once was? What of it if all were born so far into the Third Age that they do not remember his sweet prince when he was not the archer he became? Or, worse still, were born in this new age, and do not remember the prince at all, save as a tale at bedtime?

What matters it?

But it does matter.

Few there are now who remember the days of which he thinks.

“I am glad you are still here, Arasfaron,” he finds himself saying, and then notes a quality of stillness in the other, “what? Speak.”

“My lord King,” Arasfaron takes refuge in formality, “I had hoped to wait awhile. But – while you were gone – my wife and I – we spoke long. I – we also lost elves close to us – in the Battle Under the Trees – as did so many. And now – our children, and our children’s children are married, and grown and – and need us no more – and we begin to think, to wonder whether we are truly ready to stay and dwindle, to link our lives to this wood, or whether we would sail and see the land across the Sea.”

Caradhil looks down at the paper in front of him. He swallows. Somehow, he had forgotten that this elf has a wife, a life away from the notes and schemes, away from his Shadows.

“Can we talk of this another day?” he asks, “and Arasfaron – if you wish to sail – I will not stop you, never, but – I will require of you a successor, one who can be at my side. It is, perhaps, not a decision to take in haste, and I will not ask again – I will wait for you to find the moment to speak,” he looks up, and meets the other’s eyes, “for myself – I have no intention of allowing this land to dwindle.”

Arasfaron bows, and backs away, and leaves Caradhil to his thoughts – which are, mainly, surprise that he finds himself so reluctant to part with one who has admitted causing the death of an elfling. He had thought that he would be seeking a reason to send Arasfaron from the Halls, no, from the Kingdom, had thought he would not wish to work longer with this elf – but – for all that he is appalled by what happened – it was a long time ago. Who is to say what would have been the better course, who is to say what Arasfaron would do in like case now?

It is done. It may not be well done, or wisely done, or justly done – but – it is done. Things happen. Doubtless there are many things that would be better not done – but they cannot be changed.

He has guilt on his hands – and he sees again the dying face of Aglarcu – knows that he not only was responsible for his death, but for the pain and sorrow of his life. He has killed many – oh they were orcs for the most part – but – there were Men, over the years there have been Men fighting on the side of the enemy – and – they are not elves, but they are still more than animals. They were not evil in themselves, at least, they may have been, he did not stop to ask – they love their children, even as elves do – yet he has killed them, and rejoiced in their death.

For that matter, he reflects, it may be that orcs love their – whatever little orcs are called.

_“…..Pinrim naegrof trelû,_   
_Pinrim nîref…..”_

 

 

 

Time passes, as time always passes. 

Trees grow, elves sing, elflings are born – more now – the Halls are full, the surrounding woods are busy once more.

Hanben invents – constantly.

Song changes.

Arasfaron and his wife leave – and in the end, Caradhil is sorry to lose his advisor, whatever the truth of it all, of what he has said and done, he is one who knows him. Indeed, he finds when the last meeting is done, Arasfaron knows him better than he realised.

“I will not say we will look for your coming, Finbonaurion,” he says, and the informality can be ignored this one time, this last time, by one who knew him so long ago, “I think you have no reason to sail. If circumstances change, and you do, then – there will always be a place for you wherever I am. These years of working with you have been – interesting. Be assured I will greet your King for you, and tell him of all the achievements, all the progress that is made here.”

And something in Caradhil twists at the thought of such a conversation.

He is silent, and Arasfaron continues;

“Caradhil – there are achievements, there is progress. It does not diminish what went before, it does not imply discontent. None would think that – believe me – none do think that. Times change, even for elves, and this – this is a new way of living, a new Silvan land for a new Age of the World,” he stops, he must see that his words do not convince, “none could doubt your loyalty, nor that of any of our people. I said, I will greet your King for you – but I will not merely greet the King-that-was in the name of the King-that-is, I will greet Thranduil for Caradhil. I will remind him of all your service, your care, your –“

He stops. Caradhil’s hand is held up in the gesture for silence, even as he himself is turned away.

“No,” he says, and it is an effort, because – because yes, that is what he wants, what he would have – only – it would be wrong, “tell him of his land, his elves – if he asks. Only if he asks. He left – he left to be joyous again. Who are you – who am I – to risk intruding on that? Do not even seek him out – if he wants to know, he will summon you.”

He stops, and breathes, and then – the hardest words he has ever spoken,

“There are no words that I would have you say to him for me. I would not have him reminded of me – I do not say, unless he asks. He will not ask.”

Arasfaron bows his head in agreement, acknowledgment, 

“Be you well, Caradhil Finbonaurion, Elven-King of Eryn Lasgalen,” he says, and he departs.

Caradhil stands, motionless, for a long while.

There are so many words, so much that he would say – that he cannot say – that he will never say.

Thranduil will not ask of him. Thranduil never knew him, never knew anything of him – save that he had cared for his prince all those long years, as he ruled Ithilien – competently.

There are no words that need be said.

Only this silence.

“My lord King,” it is one of the guards, “my lord, are you well? There are elves here with questions for you – may they enter?”

And the King straightens, turns, his crown perfect, his face unreadable, and seats himself crosswise on the throne, languid, graceful, and endlessly patient.

 

_“……Ae ci eriol ne chuil_   
_I eraid a fuin and_   
_Ir aorel athan farn o chuil poeri._   
_Pinrim naegrof trelû,_   
_Pinrim nîref…….”_

 

 

 

 

A letter comes.

It is rare, these days, to hear from outside the kingdom.

No.

There are ties and trade with mortals – for all the striving for their own ways, there are still some things dwarves just do better, and some crops which cannot be grown here. Besides, it is as well not to become too detached – mortals have clever ideas, cunning hands, and – a nasty habit of forgetting who owns land if not reminded.

It is rare to hear from elves who are not Silvans. There are not so many left now, so many Galadhrim faded, so many Noldor sailed.

The letter is from Imladris.

Caradhil looks at it a long time before he begins to read, memories crowding his thoughts. Not that he has ever been to Imladris – there was a time, once, when he thought he would go, but no. His prince rode out alone, and life was never the same again.

Still.

One cannot blame those who are in Imladris now for that. The lord Elrond sailed years ago, and the decision to appoint Legolas one of Nine, the decision not to send him home, the decision to send him alone among not-elves, to force him into constant companionship with a dwarf – that was his decision. His alone. That the pain does not ease, that is not the fault of this – whoever it is – that writes now.

A letter must be read.

It is not from the Sons of Elrond, and Caradhil is glad, he does not think he could read without prejudice anything in the hand of those two. 

The signature means little to him – Erestor Vanimedlion – he shrugs, some Noldor, some smooth-talking city elf. That the name of Glorfindel is mentioned – is not to be wondered at. Only when he reads _“remembering the love your prince bore for you, and the trust he placed in you, we are concerned...”_ , does he begin to warm to the writer, and take his words seriously.

_“...we are concerned, Glorfindel and I, that you may not know the words and deeds of the remaining sons of Thranduil; of Thirthurun and Thorodwar. They live, presently, with their families, not in the southern-most reaches of your Forest, but in Lorien. Doubtless this is of no distress to you. However, there they have gathered about them many of the Galadhrim, as well as those Silvans who followed them for reasons best known to you, and of course, the remnants of the Sindar aristocracy of the days of Oropher. I am reminded by the lord Glorfindel, that you are young....,”_

Caradhil smiles, mirthlessly, to hear that he is young. In years, perhaps, as elves count. He does not know this Vanimedlion, but he supposes that to one like the Lord Glorfindel, all born under the light of sun and moon are young. Still – he does not feel it. Not any more.

_“....you are young, and may not be aware of just how many, nor how hot-blooded some Sindar can be._

_Recently returning from Lorien – where our dear twins and their sister now dwell – the lord Glorfindel expressed concern, great concern, as to the future plans of these brothers. It seems to us likely that they intend to rule in Lorien. Since our boys will sail with us to rejoin their parents, and their sister has chosen a mortal fate, this is not a matter for dispute – if the Galadhrim are content, so are we. However, there is an implication in their manner, a steel in their words, that bodes not well for peace. We feel we would be remiss in our guest-friendship to Legolas, and indeed, in our long admiration for Thranduil, were we not to share with you, their chosen successor, our fear that these brothers care not for the wishes of father or son, and will seek to claim Eryn Lasgalen for their own. Regrettably, the likelihood is that such an approach will not take place until we are gone, and can offer you no help – neither brother is a fool, and both are patient, as the years have shown._

_We would not urge you to seek war; indeed, if it is possible that by early preparation and wise words you can come to a peaceful solution, that would be well. However. War is sometimes thrust upon us, whether we will or no, and we would urge you to remember that your position is granted you by the will of Thranduil, the will of Legolas, and the consent of your people. There is no shame in defending this.”_

There are then some graceful nothings, to bring the letter to a close.

Caradhil sits a long time, the letter curling on the desk in front of him, eyes far in the past, mind searching for – for a way to deal with this.

 

 

 

 

Thirthurun, Thorodwar, the names lie uneasy in his mind. From somewhere long, long ago, he remembers Thalion. 

The little prince – the elfling that all elflings should try to be. So often were his virtues recited, his ways praised. 

Caradhil remembers seeing him ride out, and the memory hurts, for with him rode his parents, his grandfather, all that host – and among them, unnamed, unmentioned in history, save as a footnote, two more among the dead – Caradhil’s own parents. Finbonaur and Thonneth.

They also rode out, and came not back.

And oh my father, oh my mother, do I do well? Have I done right all these years? Right by my son, my daughter? By the children of my children? By my elves – for they are my elves – do I right by them if I deny them Sindar rule?

If I continue in this path, these new ways?

Because oh my father, my mother, for long years I knew – when I cared for my prince, when I loved him as a child, when I sought only to make him strong, and wise, to teach him to govern – I knew then that what I did would have your blessing. But now – now I rule in my own name, without word of Sindar – and – I have said to myself that it would be well with you, for I had – the King’s leave – the King bade me do so.

But – I impede his sons.

And that – that is perhaps – not as you would wish.

Yet – how can I give over my kingdom, my elves, all that I have achieved and created – to those – those who would slap an elfling who begged for comfort?

Those to whom never would my sweet prince speak?

Those – he remembers Arasfaron’s words – those who cast out their own for some – some trivial matter?

It must have been trivial, Caradhil tells himself – if it were not, they would surely have not left it shrouded in rumour, it would have become well-known, a crime would have been brought before the King.

I cannot do so.

I cannot hand all to them.

If my King had wanted them to rule – he would have given them – one of them – the crown. 

Yet how can I prepare for war against the sons of my King, brothers of my prince?

 

 

 

 

They cast out their own.

The thought chimes over and over in Caradhil’s mind.

They cast out their own.

And what became of him?

“Doronlas,” he calls, and his advisor – still new, still trying so hard to please, still nervous – comes instantly, “Doronlas, something Arasfaron said once – the Northern reaches – are there still elves up there?”

And watches the confusion, the ignorance, and sends Doronlas off to look, to find out if there is paperwork.

And when there is none, Doronlas must search out records – who would know – which Shadows are still in the Forest?

And finally, finally after weeks – someone is found.

Not an elf Caradhil knows well, a – typical Shadow.

Doronlas ushers him in, and then leaves.

“My lord King,” but the greeting is peremptory, the title reluctant, “what would you of me?”

Caradhil looks, and waits, and uses silence, as a King sometimes must.

The elf kneels, and lowers his head,

“My lord King,” he repeats, and this time, this time, he means it, “my lord Caradhil, you sent for me?”

Caradhil inclines his head, waits.

The other sighs.

“You wish to know of the Northern Forest? There are indeed elves up there. Silvans. Mainly Silvans. There is a way of reaching them – messages have been sent. Indeed, persons have been – advised to relocate there,” and the elf must feel a change in the silence, “not for many, many years. Not – not since before – before the prince came visiting. With his – mortal companion. Since then – Arasfaron decided not. There have been no scandals since then,” a wry look, the fear is wearing off, “Arasfaron said the existence of Ithilien seemed to – to draw those who might otherwise have caused comment. As it is – there are elves up there. I can tell you how to reach them, to send a message. They are – nominally – part of this kingdom, they will come,” he pauses, “I think they will come. Mostly Silvans. One Sindar. If he still lives.”

For all Caradhil’s questioning, he will not say more.

And Caradhil has not the heart to charge him with anything. How can he? Whatever has been done, was not done by this elf alone.

All he can do – is send out a plea – come home.

Come home, and be known by us.

And hope that he is right to do so.


	10. Chapter 10

It is a long way to the Northern Woods – even as the elf runs, it will take days. All the same, Caradhil is – impatient.

No.

Simply – in need of distraction, of work. Work which saves you, which keeps you holding on when love does not come, when children are gone, when there seems nothing else.

He is glad when Hanben comes to him with the slightly gloating, secretive expression that means he has thought of some new way to change the world, slowly, carefully. So glad, he does not even stop to ask for details, simply throws down the pen with which he is pretending to correct the report Arasfaron has prepared, and follows Hanben to his workshop.

The new creation sits there, large, metallic, complicated – squat and malevolent, Caradhil thinks, and rebukes himself for such foolishness. It has no personality, it is simply another thing to drag elves into the Fourth Age, to anchor those who do not sail and keep them part of this world. Things do not have a propensity for good or ill – only those who use them have that.

Caradhil looks at the – thing.

Machine. That is the word.

“Very good,” he says, and then, because experience has taught him there is no hope of understanding the how, he has not that mind, and watching is unlikely to enlighten, adds, cautiously, “and the reason – the use of this is what exactly, Hanben?”

As always, Hanben glows at the praise – and such faint praise – what it is to be undervalued for so long, Caradhil thinks in despair, and then – then the explanations come. 

So.

Paper goes here.

Ink here.

And then – and then – oh.

Oh merciful Valar.

“And – and why, exactly?” he asks, carefully, one does not want to offend, to distress, this his most loyal and useful elf, but – what does Hanben have in mind?

“My lord King,” and yes, the eyes shine, the excitement is there, “with this – there can be many, many copies in less time than it takes to write one – the first needs be written, I suppose, and then – then I – or another once they have learned – converts it into – these moveable letters, see, upside down and back to front, and then – then the ink – and paper – and – as many copies as you like.”

Caradhil nods, slowly.

“Of – anything,” Hanben is fired up, “anything my lord requires. Orders – or – or news – when there is news from Ithilien – sheets could be printed off – that is what I call it, printing – and sent – all over the Forest. A messenger could carry – news of many places – or anyone could – it need not be an authorised King’s messenger – an elfling could carry these and they would still be known as true –“

Caradhil’s mouth sets,

“No elfling works or is put to work in my Kingdom,” he says, and Hanben nods, hastily. He is not a fool.

“No, no my lord, of course not, but – if, say – an elf from one of the outlying groups came in – with, as it might be, his daughter – she could collect a news-sheet, an orders-sheet, if there was anything, while he was – at whatever had brought him here – and then – when they were home – all could read,” he pauses, “all the elflings, anyway.”

Yes.

There are still some of the older elves who cannot read – will not learn. Caradhil nods, slowly, beginning to see.

“And, my lord,” Hanben has had a good thought, “your scheme – for all the elflings to learn more – if we printed off tales, histories – they could be sent out to all – then you would know what they were learning – you would know they were learning more than merely the words their parents heard long ago.”

Caradhil looks at Hanben.

How this elf has grown.

How he reads me, how he knows me, Caradhil thinks. 

All the same – it is a good thought.

Hanben waits.

“Histories, you said?” Caradhil asks, and then, “whose histories? Who will write them? And – lays? Tales? Of – of how the world was, is that your thought?”

Hanben nods, and then remembers to whom he speaks,

“My lord. Perhaps – there are many tales known to us – but – also – tales that not-elves tell? Perhaps? Elflings might enjoy hearing those and – and it would help to build – “ he searches for the words he has heard the King use, “cultural bridges. Histories of our people. And,” he has another thought, “maybe tales of other lands – did not your – the lord Taithel – he travelled much? A – bestiary, even?”

His excitement has carried him too far.

Caradhil’s face freezes, and there is a coldness that speaks of a terrible grief in his eyes as the silence stretches.

Even Hanben, not the most astute observer, can see his words were ill-chosen.

“I – my lord King – I am sorry – I did not –“

Caradhil makes a most beautiful gesture of forgiveness and silencing, and as his hand falls once more, he forces words to come,

“No. You are right. There is much knowledge we have that should be shared by all. Much that is known should not be lost. I will think on this.”

He turns away, but he has not gone more than five paces before he speaks again,

“Hanben – I approve this – but – there will be only this one. And I will know what is – printed. Do not you overstep your place – or you will find I am not as forgiving of error as Arasfaron might lead you to believe.”

Hanben opens his mouth to assure the King that Arasfaron, head of the Shadows of the Forest, has never by word or deed implied to any that the King was like to forgive errors. Then he understands.

He bows, silently, and wonders what he has begun.

 

 

 

Over the years Hanben has learnt to put such thoughts away. It is not for him to question his King.

Printing books seems to him, really, quite harmless. How could anyone mind their elflings being able to read the tales of how the world was sung into creation? The histories? The stories of lands far off, of customs not their own?

Surely it is good for elflings to learn of such things?

For the most commonly used remedies for wounds, for Spider sickness, to be written down and a copy kept in every settlement within the Forest.

For their King to no longer have to send a messenger with words learnt to tell the outlying groups what is happening, but instead for these sheets of events to be sent out. At first they will be simple lists of names, of marriages, of appointments, with perhaps one or two happenings in the wider world remarked on – but soon they will grow, there will be little reports from many elves of things that happen within this Forest, and the Kingdom of Ithilien – and reports of other lands.

Surely this can only be a good thing.

Hanben does not let himself wonder who will write the articles, who approve them; who decide which tales, which histories are the ones all should know.

Hanben is not a fool.


	11. Chapter 11

Caradhil looks at these elves, these elves who have come down from the far North of the Forest. Silvans. Almost all of them.

One Sindar – the son of Thorodwar, the banished son, and he wonders – he cannot but wonder if there is any desire to rule – but it seems not.

He has a look of Legolas, Legolas when he was lord of Ithilien and Aglarond in name if nothing more – content; very, very content – sleek one might say.

Yet – shy. If one can call any Sindar shy, and Caradhil thinks – yes, yes one can. Well though he covered it, my prince was – not confident with those he did not know.

So. This one – is shy. Quiet. 

It is not even he that speaks for them.

With a shock, Caradhil realises that he recognises the elf who does, from long ago, long, long ago. They have combed within a group, more than once. He searches for the name. Canadion. Yes, a fourth son – unusual – parents who were so desperate for a daughter. He sighs, fourth sons. They are unlucky in this Forest. This elf – there was some – scandal – he cannot now remember what.

Probably nothing, he tells himself, elves being elves, he probably held his comb in the other hand, or refused someone’s offer within a group with words that were unkind; and he listens, and answers, and agrees, yes, the group can be housed easily enough, and of course, it is understood they have their own customs.

As is only proper, he touches ears with this, their leader, and then – then this elf kneels, graceful, so graceful, how could he have forgotten this fluidity, this beauty of movement, pronounced even among elves – and for a moment Caradhil is startled by such homage, by the eyes that flutter between looking down as is right, and – and glancing up from under such long dark lashes.

It is not, perhaps, just the homage that startles him.

“There was no command to come,” he says again, controlling his voice with an effort – and when did Caradhil last have to think to control his voice, what means this – this sudden distraction, this lack of air – he breathes, slow, and adds, not entirely truthfully, “I am not one to command. It was a request, a desire to know how many the Forest supports – to – ensure no part is overrun with spiders once more.”

Canadion makes some pretty speech, some assent, and rises.

Beautifully.

Caradhil’s eyes wish to follow, but – his gaze is caught by a stillness, his ear detects a slight –very slight – feeling of – not hostility, but – an edge, perhaps. 

There.

The elf next to Canadion. Not the Sindar, he is harmless. The other, a warrior, he – he will bear watching. Their eyes meet, and Caradhil waits. 

When the acknowledgement of rank does not come, he raises an eyebrow, but the other still stands, arms folded, a challenge in his eyes, an almost-growl in his song.

Not breaking the gaze, Caradhil is nevertheless aware of Canadion, his mouth a thin line now of disapproval, using those hands – those perfect, graceful hands – to gesture between them,

“My lord King, I am remiss,” he says, “I should have named for you Thiriston, son of Orobenon, an elf of the Northern Woods. You will not recognise him, I am confident, yet he has these many years been at my side, my dearest advisor, and leader of our group in times of war.”

Caradhil nods, slightly, still not breaking the gaze,

“Indeed,” he answers, “a dangerous warrior, on his home turf, I am sure. Be you welcome in these my Halls, Thiriston, as any Silvan should be.”

The moment passes.

The delegation is seated, the feast can begin, conversation be made.

He does not yet speak of the real problem. Not with this Sindar here.

He watches the group during the feast, and the dancing which follows. He watches this group as they dance, his eyes ever drawn to the elf he combed with once, and – and he remembers his prince dancing for other eyes than his. He watches where eyes rest, and hands brush but carefully do not hold, and draws his own conclusions.

Later, when many dance, he leans in towards Thiriston, he of the Northern Woods, 

“It is a delight to me,” he says, carefully, his words planned, “to see Canadion once again, to see him so – well. So successful. You will know, I daresay, that he and I – combed.”

He watches the hands clench, the teeth grate, and,

“No. I did not know. He made no mention of _you_. Little need to talk of those of the Southern Reaches – not felt ourselves part of your – kingdom, Finbonaurion.”

Caradhil nods, slowly, thinking, trying to hear the spaces between the words, trying to place from where he recognises the tone.

“That grieves me – that you have not felt part of this realm,” he says, bland, and then, “and it will grieve me also if I am right in thinking neither you nor Canadion will be seeking combing groups this evening?”

Thiriston controls himself well, even as he growls his answer. Caradhil is – reluctantly – impressed.

He smiles, and offers,

“There are many guest-flets near these Halls – if you would prefer that to Rooms – any of you – those elves,” he gestures to those whose business it is to know such things, “will be able to show you quarters for your stay. Separate, of course, for combmates.”

There is a relaxation next to him. Yes, he thinks, you are an elf, you show it differently – but – you are as jealous and possessive as the first lord of Aglarond. 

And I – I do not understand. 

Elves are not made as mortals are.

Surely.

Next day, he meets with Canadion, not in the throne room, but in his study.

“So,” Caradhil begins, “we are alone now. You and I. Tell me, Canadion, what is going on up in your part of the Forest. You have a Sindar who does not rule, does not wish to – in my experience that is rare. I saw it once, my sweet prince – but he – was in love. Is your Sindar likewise – or should I be wary?”

Canadion bites his lip and flushes, and Caradhil presses further,

“Cunelas, you called him – yet it seems to me that long ago the son of Thorodwar was named Cundlas. Why the change – who gave him this new name? I am right when I read his braids that he is no more married than you – or your combmate?”

Canadion’s mouth twists, very slightly, at that, a twitch of the nose, a suppression of amusement, and Caradhil continues, stalking with words, patient as the hunter he so long was,

“In fact – your group – I know you are hunters, perhaps warriors rather, but – no ellyth? At all? I cannot remember ever seeing a group like that. No war-band is so unbalanced, though often it is simplest to let mortals think us so. I cannot, in truth, think of an – elven – reason. Unless you have simply divided to come – but my message was clear. We would meet you all, to know and be known by you. And I look at your braids, and I – I wonder. Speak to me. I listen.”

The other runs his hand over his braids, vowed, they say, vowed to one for all time, no, more, married, and Caradhil begins to suspect his guess is right when the other – and he is not younger, or not by much, he merely looks it – does not speak,

“I am waiting,” he says, “if you are leader, then speak to me.”

Canadion looks at the floor and then up, touching his braids again, then looking at his hands – fine hands, Caradhil thinks, and for all the braids, for all it is wrong to think so of another’s combmate, cannot stop a desire to feel those hands in his hair – hands which touch constantly an armband, ornate and beautiful, and seeming to draw confidence, Canadion swallows, 

“Yes, I am leader, only – we are not practiced at this. It is long since we spoke with any outside our group – long have we been cut off. I have not the words – never did I have words for this. No, we have no ellyth – I – I do not think we would mind if there were any who wanted to come but – when we left – we were in a hurry and so – we went as we were. Those of us who – who could not desert our prince in his trouble, those of us who – who understood,” he falters, then continues on the first thought, “– he was a prince then. He is not now. He would not claim it, I was to say that. His father, Thorodwar, cast him out – his uncle also. I – I think his grandfather did not know – was not consulted. It happened when – when – a long time ago. His grandfather the King – was – unhappy, was not consulted. It would be – I do not know when. That – when we left – he took a new name, the name his combmate, Ruinfindil, gave him. As – as some elves do. If – if they vow – anyway.”

He comes to a halt, but Caradhil has been thinking.

“His grandfather was unhappy, as you call it, many, many years. I think – if I am right – the years when I was on raft duty – that is when I remember coming home and hearing your name – I am sorry, but it is so – connected with scandal,” he stops, unwilling to speak of the bitterness, the anger in the voices of those related to this elf – those who are no longer here to cause pain, and so why hurt him if he knows not? “But always – unclear, always whispers, and it was long that you had been in those Northern Halls, long since you and I were combing together in the group of – I forget – Rawon perhaps? And so I did not ask further – there were always other things of which to be speaking and – and the scandal was so – shrouded in webs of disapproval. I was not then one to be brave enough to ask, to my shame,” he thinks, then, “that would have been when there was the first dwarf kingdom under the mountain. Somewhere in the eleventh century of the Third Age. But,” he is thinking now, “but surely it has not been so long that you have been – apart?”

Canadion shrugs again,

“Perhaps that would be when rumour started. Near enough. Yet – no. They did nothing then, nothing for long years, nothing all the while they were within reach of the King.”

He pauses, then, irrelevantly, it seems, 

“They banned kilts.”

Caradhil nods, yes, he remembers that ban – though there was never a reason – and he remembers now Finrusc – it would be Finrusc – saying there was some – connection – with this elf. What, he cannot imagine. 

Kilts were comfortable, practical. 

Canadion would have looked well in a kilt, he thinks, and does not understand the thought, or the catch in his own breath. All elves look well in whatever they wear, that is simply how it is – to think of it makes no sense. One is not a mortal, to dwell on appearance.

Canadion continues,

“There was a time the King rode out. I – I do not know all of it – up where we were there was talk of a Mountain, a Dragon, a dreadful urgency, and jewels, jewels the King would let elves die to reclaim, his greed was such –“

Caradhil cannot hear this, this lie,

“Not greed,” he says, and he is proud of himself that his voice does not tremble, that he can speak of this, “love. They were jewels crafted for him by – by his wife – you must know – she was a jeweller – a crafter – from Eregion – she worked with Celembrimbor – they were the last – most precious jewels she made for his delight. The agony of being without them – do not you judge my King, do not you say he was full of greed, that he went to war for gold – you know nothing of my King. He – he would not have loosed that army, that killing – sit and wait, yes, he would have done that – but not kill, not let us die, us, his elves – he cared for us, ever he cared for us as – as –“ he stops, he cannot say as a father to children – not of that father, those children. And he wonders at himself for losing his own control so fast, so hard, to one whose opinion should matter so little.

Canadion raises a perfect eyebrow, and something in his face changes a little as he bends his head in apology, 

“You are loyal to your King,” he says, “more. You defend him as I would wish Thi – one to defend me. I apologise. I knew not that – it makes it a little easier to bear, to understand.”

There is silence for a moment, and Caradhil also bends his head, acknowledging the comment, and makes the gesture to continue.

“However. The King rode out, taking most of his elves with him. And in that time – the princes we lived under – the brothers Thirthurun and Thorodwar – they – I do not know what they planned in full, but the start of it was to clean up their own house,” he looks away, and touches again the armband, “I suppose we were lucky that we had our Sindar, our sweet Cunelas, for is it kinslaying for Sindar to kill Silvan?”

Surely it is, Caradhil thinks, as surely as it was kinslaying when Noldor slew Teleri. But he takes the other’s meaning, the doubt as to the honour of those particular Sindar, and does not speak. 

“We were banished. They had worked gradually, with soft words as they do, until none – almost none – were ready to support us, and of those who wished to – they dared not – and we understood. They had elflings, avowed ones, they had – lives. They did not dare risk all they had for the sake of so few, and – and so we left. Perhaps – perhaps if we had known more of the Northern Reaches, we would have fought harder to stay.”

He is silent, touching his armband again, and shivers. Caradhil waits, puzzled once more, and then, like an echo in his mind he hears again Arasfaron’s words when he spoke of events at that time, of the princes’ march south, its consequences, and he whispers,

“There had been words between Thorodwar and his wife, decisions made that she may not have agreed with – I did not understand what he meant, but – yes – to cast out a child – how could he do such a thing? It is not right, it is unelven, whatever the crime – the supposed crime,” he corrects himself, and he thinks once more of that lonely death, that wine that must have seemed as though her husband – her love – begged forgiveness, offered perhaps to recall their son – but instead – instead he came home to find her dead – and his daughter also. 

Caradhil has no love for Thorodwar, yet – his life is indeed a tragedy. 

“His wife died,” he says, “I suppose you know – his wife and daughter – and yet – he did not call back his son? What are these Sindar that they can be so alone, so cold?”

Their eyes meet once more, and Canadion shrugs, 

“I know not,” he says, “and like you, I have found that the best of them – my prince and yours – our dear leaves – are not so,” and if he thinks to himself – but your prince is gone, your son is dead, your descendents scattered through this realm and that of your daughter – and when did you last see her, touch ears with her – you sit alone on your throne, you comb with any group you wish to persuade, you have those who come to you for power, for ambition, for many reasons – yet Caradhil, Elven-King of Eryn Lasgalen – who do you love? By whom are you embraced? – if he thinks this, he has the wisdom to save his thoughts for the one whose hands braid him, and, running one hand over those braids for reassurance, comfort, he shakes himself, and,

“It has been a long time. To begin with – we simply – survived. Life was hard, and – and the years passed uncounted. We thought of moving away but – the Forest is home,” their eyes meet, and Caradhil nods, yes, he understands that, “and where could we go? We knew not anywhere we would be welcome. Then, since the Shadows – found us – there have occasionally been others to come to us, there have been messages. Brief, never answers to our questions, but – a little more than before. And so – we stayed. Indeed, were it not for us – it is my thought that there would be less elves here. We ever fought spiders, and raiding parties of orcs from the Grey Mountains. It – has not been easy. Yet we have not lost many, over the years. Three in battle and – and one who faded after. A dozen or so who went West, talking of perhaps sailing – we do not know what became of them,” 

he sighs, and Caradhil sees the tiredness that his King never showed, but which was there in the tension of every sinew, in the control of every movement, in the impatience with fools, in the coldness with his sons; the tiredness he knows is sometimes on his own face, the tiredness he fears will become more and more as the decades pass, the exhaustion when elves want you to rule, on and on, always making the decisions, always taking the responsibility. He wonders how this elf masks it so well, from where he draws his strength. Canadion swallows, and the charm, the – the prettiness – is back,

“We knew the princes had gone, Thranduil also, the King – changed, and we wondered if we dare come South again. I hoped – but – too many of us were unsure. Unsure of our welcome, unsure of what we might find, after so much time. I knew – I knew my Naneth was dead, my brothers also. Their children – I find they are gone. Some sailed, some to Ithilien. I – I would have liked to see them again. Be that as it may, I believe – it is never clear – Arasfaron or someone has – knowledge – half-knowledge perhaps – and sends to us those who are – likely to become scandalous. Not many. I suppose – perhaps – eight and thirty over the years. We began with twenty.”

Caradhil nods again.

He waits, but there is no more.

“Scandal,” he says, for still, still he does not quite understand, he needs it plain, “of what sort?”

Canadion looks at his feet, at the ceiling, at the floor, and chews on his lip.

Not a wise habit for one with sharp elven teeth.

Caradhil waits.

“You will make a bloody mess of that,” he says after a while, it reminds him so of dealing with those who are not elflings but not adults, and then he is inspired, he has begun to suspect how it is, he begins to understand why this elf is less worn than one might think by so many years of leadership, “and who then will kiss it better?”

There is a shocked silence, and he thinks he is wrong, but no. The flush has returned and spread so that Canadion’s ears appear to be on fire,

“My – my Thiriston – but – you – how -?”

Caradhil nods.

“I did not. But now I know, and I know why your Sindar was cast out,” he sighs, “it seems to run in that family. My prince, my sweet Legolas – you must have heard – surely even where you are – he and his beloved dwarf – all the time they – I have not the words, but – more than combing there was between them. I did not know elves could – could learn such things without a mortal – but there. Why not, I suppose? Who am I to say what elves can or cannot do? – I have done things that most would say elves cannot. In my experience if there is a will, there is a way to learn.”

Canadion snorts with laughter, and after a moment’s reflection, Caradhil does also.

“Is that all it is then?” he asks, between disbelief at so little a thing being made so much, and doubt that he has understood completely, that he has the words to use, “no rebellious group, no magic, no – alliance with those who should not be allied with – simply – a few ellyn who need more than combing from their vowed ones, their – lovers?”

Canadion nods and Caradhil swallows down his rage at what has been done to this band, the privations they have endured for – for what? for something some Sindar disliked, something judged as unelven by those who – and the horror is still there – those who raised their hands to an elfling, their brother, their small brother they left uncombed, untouched, uncomforted and they – they dared to call others unelven. They cast out son, nephew, banished him from their sight, their Halls, and yet – they dared to call others unelven. 

Unelven. What does such a word mean? If an elf – more than one elf – can desire something – then it cannot be unelven, surely. Whatever this – something – is. This – more than combing, that made my prince so joyous, so loved, that he shone the way I could never make him shine, that he – he gave all he had, and all he was. That, in the end, he would die for the mortal love that lay behind it.

Whatever this more than combing is, it cannot, of itself, be wrong. And for an instant, not only the rage, but the – the longing to know – to understand what it is – what it is that has elves so very – golden – the longing for what cannot be found in friendship, in combing, in the making of elflings with one’s dearest friend – the longing is so strong. He swallows it down, to speak would do no good. This elf does not need to hear of his rage, does not need to hear his opinion of Sindar perfidy, Sindar cruelty. This elf certainly does not need to hear of all the pain he carries. 

Who wants to hear of the King’s pain?

And so he stays silent; it could only hurt to reopen old wounds and longings, and the rest of the meeting is a simple exercise in basic diplomacy. 

No need for two states, no need for any to feel divided off or excluded, not anymore. Indeed, better communications would benefit both parties, news could be carried between, the old long patrol routes reinstated – that part of the Forest used once more, and, Caradhil is quick to offer all and any of Hanben’s inventions, more trade, more comfort, better weapons. No need for any to feel they must stay in either holding – in fact, he says, why do you not rebuild the old Northern Halls? Those Sindar brothers will not be coming back there. 

And waits, and watches the reaction.

Not so simple as joy, but – there is no doubt, this group would not be – what was the mortal word – voting for the return of those two.

He pauses a moment longer, thinking, and then,

“Canadion, group leader – I would take you into my confidence, I would speak with you as I have not with any other,” Caradhil begins, and then, seeing the colour rise, “no, not in a way you would hesitate to repeat to your Thiriston – indeed, there may be some of it I can allow you to tell him – only – listen first, and let us find wisdom together.”

He waits, one eyebrow raised, and slowly, hesitantly, Canadion nods, and Caradhil begins,

“There has been a letter – no, never mind about that. You know Thirthurun, Thorodwar – they are in Lorien. And – well,” he pauses again, “I need – to think – how to approach it. If they want – and they will want – sooner or later – they will want – to come home. Of course they will want to come home, to rule here. Is that – do you think – that would please your elves?”

He hardly needs to wait for an answer.

“No, and – and I doubt it would many of mine. Oh, there are some who might think they would like a return to Sindar rule, who might think they would like to be ordered, never to be asked to share in decisions, who might say they do not like the changes – they do not, perhaps, like all the changes – but – no. Those who wanted their rule, followed them. So. Your Sindar, Cunelas, he is the grandson of Thranduil, a descendant of Oropher – would he wish to rule?”

It is unlike Caradhil to be so direct – it is a measure of his worry, his concern. 

Canadion – laughs.

And it is, Caradhil thinks, a beautiful sound. Clear and joyous, a pealing of silver notes. Lucky Thiriston, he thinks, to have that sound to wake to, to – to hear whenever – whenever you like.

He wonders what it is like to listen to the laughter of one you love with all that you are, one that you love – as only elves can love.

“No,” Canadion is once more the polished diplomat, “no, I said. He is not a prince any longer. He would not claim it, would not desire it. Not for anything. He is – loved, and beloved. He is a good warrior, a skilled healer, and – nothing more,” he looks sidelong at Caradhil, and smiles, a slow, beautiful smile, “he would not even speak for us to you – he was determined not to seem to be the grandson of Thranduil. Oh, he is, one has only to look, but – he has not the steel. He is a good lad though. Do not speak to him of this, if you can help it. He does not mention his father, his uncle, ever. I do not know what words were spoken – I think only one does, only his Ruinfindil – but – well. Some hurts do not heal.”

Caradhil nods. He thought as much from the moment they arrived.

Still.

It is as well to be sure.

The conversation moves on, and he finds it is easy to think of future plans. His own difficulties – his dread of the sons of Thranduil – he will keep to himself. Time will show.

There is always time, for elves.

For now though – for now, it is good to dream together.

Make a proper second holding – this is our Forest, Silvan land – time to make that clear. Build for a long future, he smiles, we are elves, Canadion, we need not the immortality of descendants. We have our own. 

Canadion smiles in return, and soon enough plans, ideas, flow between them. Almost, almost Caradhil wishes to comb, to talk as elves talk best, but – that is not possible. As it was not with Arasfaron, or with many another, he reminds himself, and does not let himself wonder why the thought stings more this time. Canadion is indeed a most – beautiful – elf. Hair that would be silken to the touch, a chestnut shot with autumn red, and ears – ears that are so very – perfectly sculpted. 

Canadion is vowed to Thiriston. Vowed not for a season, but for all time.

If he were not – if he were not – for less time than it would take to run his hands through one pretty braid, to loosen it and see the hair fall, feel the silk, Caradhil wonders what elves could learn. What he could learn.

What he could have learnt with this elf, had he not left that combing group, moved on, as he always moved on in those days, seeking something – something he never found.

That is not a thought he should be having, and so he does not, he does not think of the harmony that their voices could form.

No indeed.

Only of their plans, of ways for the Forest to become greater.

The time passes pleasantly enough.

Caradhil ensures he speaks more to this Thiriston, and he cannot fault Canadion’s judgement – this is one who is loyal and true, and, when there was need, a ferocious warrior – a fine consort for a group leader. He is good company and drinks well.

Atrocious accent though.

It comes as a shock to realise they were vowed, in love, before they left those Northern Halls – that Canadion became leader only in their exile. That, given different circumstances, Canadion would have been content to be nothing but a quiet sort of elf, expected to spend his life following Thiriston, even as his eyes – eyes that are brown but intriguingly flecked with gold, with amber, with the shades of autumn and lights of the Forest, eyes that Caradhil has no business to be noticing, and does not quite know why he does – those eyes follow Canadion’s beloved as Thiriston moves among the weapons in the armoury, comparing and experimenting, ready to spar, to see what new things have been learnt on either side of the divide. 

How circumstances change what we are, what we choose to be, Caradhil thinks, as he watches this self-assured leader keep track of his group, ensure none drinks too deep, and gather them all together at the end of each evening.

They are a pleasant group, no trouble at all. Cunelas is too besotted with his Ruinfindil to have any conversation or attention left for others, but that is how Sindar are.

Each night when they are gone to their flets, Caradhil makes certain to do the rounds of the groups in Hall, to listen to gossip, to correct confusion and ensure an end to foolishness or ill-judged words.

It is only when the group has left, to return to their own part of the woods – and there are some new couples with them, and a few left behind, for a while at least – that Caradhil allows himself to go through the door.

Alone at last, after all the months of keeping countenance, in the silence he howls for all that he cannot have, all that it seems it is, after all, possible for elves to have. For the love returned, the love expressed, the – the pleasure in one who – who sees you for what you are and still – still adores you.

For what Thiriston and Canadion have.

For eyes that follow you, hands that reach out for you, for – for arms to hold you through the nights, the long nights when you wonder whether all that you have done and been and decided and imposed on others – was it done well?

For the giving and receiving of comfort, of – of love.

For that glide of body against body, that – that coming together – that holding, and closeness – that – what was the word his prince used, once, that – love-making.

For all that he dreamed of, wordless though he was, lacking in knowledge though he was and remains, for how can he ask questions when there is no place for such things, when he – he is alone? 

What is the use?

He is not vowed, he has none who care for him.

He gave his heart long ago, he swore his love – without words, without understanding, he gave all that he had, all that he was or is or will ever be. 

And there was no return.

But he is an elf. And, in the way of elves, he loves once, and once only.

There is no use in thinking of what could have been, were the world different. He will not let himself do so, outside this room, will not let himself grieve year after year. Only here, only this once will he let himself think of – of what it is for which he so longs.

A King has no business to be distracted by his own pain. 

Who cares for the King’s pain?

Who cares for Caradhil?

Love – love is not for Caradhil – the words he spoke so often, so laughingly, in his youth have become bitter in his time of power and knowledge. 

And he weeps for all that could never be.

 

_“…Cuil nin nath uilasbelin_  
_An ech usi……”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thiriston and Canadion appear by courtesy of Wynja2007 - the unofficial stars (well, almost) of the epic 'Where It Doesn't Show'. I can only hope I have done them justice.....


	12. Chapter 12

Caradhil looks once more at the letter. 

The last one there will be from this elf.

The last letter from Imladris.

It is a strange thought, that he never met this elf – this – Erestor Vanimedlion, Erestor of Imladris. He never will now.

There is a regret there – this elf, for all that he is Noldor, for all that he represents so much of what Caradhil most despises – city elves, Noldor elves, servant of those peredhel brothers – a tiny kingdom, holding itself aloof and remote from the world, and now fleeing West – a kingdom ruled, it always seemed, by blood and birth – yet, somehow – in the halting correspondence over the years, there has seemed a sharp intelligence, a knowledge of people of all races, and – he wondered – but never dared to ask – this elf seemed never to question why a Silvan ruled. 

He remembers Arasfaron’s most useful phrase – mistakes were made. Yes. Perhaps mistakes have been made – perhaps this elf might have been one from whom to learn. 

It is too late now.

Besides, he reminds himself, whatever else this elf is, he is clearly devoted to the lord Glorfindel – and a more typical arrogant born-to-riches knight, Caradhil does not think he ever saw.

He does not listen to the whisper in his head that says – you hated him because he was beautiful, and confident, and lordly, and laughed and talked as an equal with your King – and your King laughed back, and relaxed, and looked – looked as he looked in the days of his youth and happiness.

And you were jealous.

You did not know it then, you did not know yourself – but you were jealous.

Caradhil ignores this.

He turns to Doronlas – still here, still working – a most reliable elf, Doronlas seems not interested in love, or elflings, or even combing. They – Caradhil has become used to the word now – they seem not to join any group regularly, to comb only sometimes, and although they sing, as any elf must sing – the song is – more abstract. It is a difficult thing to explain, and Caradhil has spent many hours wondering about it – sometimes he tries to imagine explaining to Droin – and oh Droin, my friend, did you have dwarves like this, is this something you could have understood better than I – but usually an elf – will be male or female, and their song will have a pattern. Oh, mortals can easily become confused – as, Caradhil admits, elves can when faced with mortals – dwarves especially – but – elves know their own race. Yet Doronlas – and they are not the only one – and in his heart Caradhil wonders sometimes if there are more such elves these days, and is it a sign from Eru that the time of the elves is over – elflings are not needed so much now – Doronlas claims to be neither male nor female, and their song is – abstract. 

For practical purposes, it makes little difference, and indeed Caradhil is grateful to have a secretary who has, it seems, no intention of falling in love and becoming distracted. 

At the thought, he smiles, ruefully. Not many elves intend to fall in love, or to become distracted. But it happens, and of all of this, this is the part that makes no sense – how can Doronlas say it will not? 

Love happens.

Love is not about – elflings – though elflings can be – usually are – born from love.

Love is not about – any of the ways one expresses it – be one an elf as Caradhil always understood elves to be, or mortal, or – or one to choose to live in the Northern Forest – or not.

Love is – he sighs. Even in his own mind, he does not know what love is. Not really, not any better now than he did when he was young and foolish, nor than when his grandson, his dear Caradhlas asked him. 

He knows what love has been for him – but he is not blinkered enough to believe it is the same for others.

He does not know what love – love returned – love true – is.

Only what it is not.

Still.

Doronlas seems content with things as they are. Doubtless there will come a day when they wish to share their comb – but until then – why worry?

There are enough things in Arda to worry over without that.

“Doronlas,” he begins, returning to the matter of the letter, “I would have a closer watch kept upon our borders – and upon the Golden Wood. There will be many changes there soon – for Imladris empties, the days of the peredhel are over, and the Galadhrim must leave – or be ruled by Sindar. And I would have knowledge of the plans of those Sindar. I trust them no more now than I ever have, these past – three thousand years. There is no goodwill in them, only malice. Or so it ever seems to me. And so – let the Shadows find a way to bring me news,” he sighs again, “and while I think of it, we had best let our Northern Halls be aware of this, that they also may be watchful.”

Their eyes meet, and he knows that Doronlas understands his unease. For all that no-longer-prince may say he cares not for them, he will not listen to the words of his father, his uncle – they are his father, his uncle – one cannot be too careful in such cases.

“I had best write to Can – to Thiriston,” he corrects himself. Even after all these years, Canadion cannot – or will not – read or write. Caradhil smiles, as he remembers suggesting it, saying it is not as difficult as one always thought – see, he himself learnt in very little time, and from a dwarf – their runes are simpler – though proper letters are indeed prettier to look at. Always a consideration for Canadion, that. But no, he tossed his hair – lovely hair – and – Caradhil does not know the phrase “batted his eyelashes” nor the word “pouted”, which is a shame – and did that thing he does when he wants to make it clear he is partly joking, and said,

“Why would I need to learn such a thing? I am only a Silvan. Besides, my Thiriston can read and write well enough for us both,” and Caradhil once more found himself forced to concentrate on not showing his envy at the look that passed between them.

Because that look – that look is all that love is – and all that he has not, that he cannot truly imagine.

As practice has taught, he turns his thoughts away from that, and instead reflects on the short, pithy letters he has come to enjoy from Thiriston. Oh, some of the content – the important messages – is Canadion’s, he rules his Halls as completely as any could wish, but the asides, the humour conveyed, and the deep affection for not only his ruler, but both his trees and his people – that is Thiriston. 

 

 

_My lord King,_ Caradhil reads, _myself and the lord Canadion send you greetings, and our thanks for your letter, and the many books that accompanied it. As you know, there are now a surprising number of elflings in these parts, and be assured not one is as lazy and foolish as my beloved. They all learn to read, and to write, well before the end of their second decade._

_Indeed, soon you can expect to receive far prettier letters than any I shall ever pen. No. I am mistaken. The lord Canadion says no other could be trusted by him, foolish penneth that he is to think I might not stand over any he were closeted with for hour after hour...._

_The books. Yes. Thank you, my lord King, for those. After so many years of believing the traditional Noldor histories, it is good to be corrected on these matters._

Caradhil frowns, and wonders if he went too far.

No.

A King must know best, must keep his elves safe from any folly – and what is the self-doubt of Silvans but the greatest folly of all?

_The lord Canadion had speech with our Sindar, as you suggested, and Cunelas repeats his words of before. As you may know, it seems someone has seen fit to ensure he knows precisely how his mother and sister died,_

Caradhil smiles, grimly,

_and he has no intention of coming south to meet with those he formerly considered relations. I am to say once more that this group will not accept a Sindar King again. We are elves of these woods; we give our allegiance freely to you, Lord Caradhil and to your House, should aught befall you._

_These are words I thought not to write, but I am commanded to do so, and who am I to disobey the lord Canadion? An it be that your realm fails, that the southern woods become Sindar once more, in the first place we would offer resistance, and shelter here those, if any, of your land who required it; in the second place, if we too were to fail to withstand these usurpers, we will then journey East, being Silvan, and having no desire to sail Westwards. In this endeavour also we would join with any remaining of your land._

_Should it come to war between this kingdom and the Sindar we cannot promise you many warriors. You know how we are situated here, my lord King. Those we can send, we will._

And the letter is signed by Thiriston, with the flower-mark of Canadion also.

Caradhil is not surprised by any of it.

Saddened, that they have so little faith in this land that they make already their plans for his failure, but not surprised.

He knows that for all he tries not to show it – for all it seems he often succeeds – he is afraid.

He is afraid of these Sindar, afraid he has not the courage to stand against them.

Afraid they have merely to come to him, to say – who are you that keeps us from the land where our father was King – and he will crumble.

Because who, what is he?

A Silvan.

A hunter by birth.

Nothing more.

And he is alone.

Always alone.

But, he reminds himself, I am the King. The crown I wear was given to me – not to them, but to me.

My Lord King could have chosen one of them – both of them – but he did not.

And I will not fail his last command.

I will stand strong, I will keep my elves safe.

I am Caradhil.

This I can do.


	13. Chapter 13

Caradhil laughs, nose to nose with the elfling – how can any not laugh when they have an elfling blinking at them, unable to focus, so small, so young? But smiling, and crowing with laughter herself – it is, Caradhil reminds himself, probably simply the joy of being held alone, not bundled up as one of a pair – no child this small really recognises anyone, not beyond Ada and Naneth, but – but for a little while, he is not the King, he is not wearing a crown, he has not the power of life and death over all. 

He is simply Caradhil, Daerada of Caradhlas. Caradhlas, who with his wife and his children has returned – his daughter Tinuwen bringing her Ithilien-born husband and their almost grown elflings. Elflings with whom he missed so many years – but since the return there has been another vowing, and this child – this child is the younger of the second pair of twins born to Talathion, eldest son of Caradhlas. She is lovely, and perfect, and all that an elfling should be, and he – he aches with the longing for the days when he was Ada, and all that mattered were Tegylwen and Taithel. But for now, that ache can be ignored, and all the old songs can be brought out one more time, and the tickling, and the smiling, and the touching ears, and rubbing noses, and tiny hands in hair, and on it goes.

“Four elflings is enough,” Talathion says, “at least, four should be enough. But no, apparently we are to go on – I think my wife has taken your worries about the falling population to heart, Ada-of-us-all – and now that there is no reason not – no food shortages, no wars – well,” he shrugs, “someone had best ensure the not-quite-royal-family has plenty of heirs.”

For a moment, Caradhil is still, silenced by the reminder that yes, even now, he is King, they are royal, all elves in this wood are not equal, much though he would give for that to be different. 

Caradhlas, who is no-one’s fool, and has, after all, known his grandfather all his life, cuffs his son, and asks him what, if anything, he thinks he will inherit? 

“We are not mortals,” he adds, “my Daerada will rule here for as long as there are elves,” he laughs, “or if not, I do not think our line will be chosen. You forget my aunt – there is a Queen to be reckoned with, and she has children.”

“Ada is becoming old,” Tirithel, second son of Caradhlas says, and his sister agrees, “he is forgetting we had word not two decades gone – those children – older than he though they are – have gone East. They had the wanderlust, the need to travel – by the time they come back, they will be as wild as Naneth-of-us-all and her people. Plains elves.”

Yes, Caradhil supposes so. Tegylwen does not seem to mind – perhaps that is what love does for you – you do not ache and long and miss your children so – if you know they are well and happy you can let them go. 

Indeed, he tells himself, Finbonaur and Thonneth never seemed to mind when he left their group, and rarely indeed did he return with tales of himself.

He regrets that now, of course, has done this many a long year – but – who is to say whether they minded, or whether they were as glad to have their flet to themselves again as Caradhlas and his beloved?

Caradhlas, who is after all, half plains-elf, shudders at the thought, and makes a gesture to ward off the evil words, to keep the trees strong, and they all laugh again.

The baby Caradhil holds manages, in the distraction, to grab his braid, and pull quite alarmingly hard, and when he exclaims, she laughs louder than she has all afternoon, and tries again.

“Clever girl,” her father praises her, and Caradhil glares.

“You are not too old to banish, you know,” he says, but they all know there is no truth in his words.

“Not too old,” Talathion agrees, “but too well-endowed with children, too related to you, and –“ he lifts his glass in a toast, “too loyal to my King.”

“Your Ada,” Caradhil tells the elfling, “your Ada is a very silly elf indeed. But he is right. And you, my little one, are quite the loveliest, most beautiful, gorgeous girl that I have seen since – oh since I looked at your sister, aren’t you? Yes, you are.”

There is a quiet cough from the edge of the clearing, and Caradhil looks up, not ashamed to be caught talking nonsense – and it is not nonsense anyway, it is the truth – simply annoyed to be interrupted.

“My lord King, there is a – a delegation. From Lorien.”

Caradhil sighs, and hands the child over to another, reluctantly. 

He stands, and follows Doronlas back to the Halls, Tirithel following him – at first unnoticed, and then – then felt as a silent presence, a reserve of strength behind him. This, of all of them, this elf is more curious, less accepting than any of the rest. He worries for him, that he is still – in his sixth century – unmarried, unvowed, showing no interest in any combing partner. 

Foolish, really, but – elves should marry, should love – he would not wish a strange and lonely fate on any, least of all one of his own. 

Later, he will remember that, and wonder at himself, that it seemed so simple. 

Later he will remember that day, those hours in the leafmould with the babies.

And be grateful that he was wise enough to enjoy them.

 

 

 

There they are, these strange elves – Galadhrim, mostly, two Sindar at their head – not anyone he recognises – and Caradhil finds himself relieved from a fear he had not known he felt – they do not look like the brothers, not like his sweet prince, and – and only in their arrogance is there resemblance to his King.

As his eyes travel over the group – and how many – sixteen – no, nearer two dozen – I started elvish-Ithilien with less, he thinks – he sees the tell-tale Silvan hair of the final four – and then – one raises his head, and – and will every mistake I ever made come back to haunt me one day, he wonders.

Maegsigil.

Well.

But by the widened eyes, the downward twitch of nose, Caradhil understands this is not a moment for recognition.

Instead, he listens to words of – of what?

Words of nothing.

Galadhrim, he supposes, skilled in the art of saying little while seeming to say much. In the use of words to confuse, to entrap, to enchant.

To show themselves wiser.

He waits, and reminds himself he is King of Eryn Lasgalen. 

The King sits, beautiful and unimpressed upon his throne, languid and bored as ever.

One Sindar speaks – and he has not his father’s wit – which in Caradhil’s opinion was not much – but he has all his father’s disdain for any elf who is not Sindar, all his clipped delivery of scornful words.

The other stays silent, and Caradhil wonders. He can feel a silence from next to him – oh, they are all silent, they all listen, and only the King speaks – that is how it is in this Forest – but there is a special quality to it. 

The first meeting ends with a gesture to those of the Shadows who are useful in such matters to escort the group to chambers, that they may prepare themselves for a feast that evening, and further talks on the morrow. Caradhil hopes that by then, he will have some idea what this is about.

When they have left, he looks idly along the row of his own elves, and sees Bregeleb and Tirithel exchanging heated words.

Oh.

He had begun to wonder whether those two were likely to be – moving North – as the phrase now is. Apparently not.

And then – then there is the moment when he sees the set of Tirithel’s head, hears that – something – in his voice, and – and no. Not him. Not my beautiful one, my so-clever, so-careful one. 

Please no.

Please, and he has no idea who he is asking – when have the Valar ever listened – please. Do not make me watch as he dashes himself against the rock of Sindar indifference.

Do not make me lose him.

The spat – or whatever it was – finishes – and Tirithel leaves, not a backward glance. 

The King stands, and all await his command.

“Bregeleb, attend me,” he says, and the elf follows him in silence.

 

 

Door shut, Caradhil turns away, what he has to say might be best said not looking at the other.

“You and Tirithel,” he begins, and then – falls silent, wondering how to speak of this.

“It was nothing,” Bregeleb says, hastily, foolishly, “he – I – nothing, my lord King. Merely words. A – a trifle.”

Caradhil stares at the wall, and tries again.

“I have thought – I wondered – do you –“ why are words as difficult now as they have always been? Surely there should be a way to speak of such things? “He is the son of my grandson. That is why I ask. It is not the King who speaks. You and he – you have not – exchanged vows – combs?”

He turns back, and observes the flushed ears – truly this is not something he has the right to ask.

Bregeleb draws himself up straight, and looks Caradhil in the eye,

“My lord King, if we had, I would be proud to own it before all. If we had – not you yourself could part us – and if we wished to – not you yourself could stop us,” and Caradhil – Caradhil looks away.

If only I had known what you know, he thinks. If only I had had the courage to speak thus, to reach out to my prince – how different life would be.

Yes, he reminds himself, I would not have my children, or my children’s children, or any of them. I would not have Tirithel. 

I would never have truly loved.

And for a moment – the price seems small.

“No, my lord King, we have not, we will not. He cares not thus for me – and I – I think it cannot be the love we hear tell of that I feel for him – I care for him, but – I can believe there might one day be another to whom I would vow.”

Caradhil nods, 

“Then you will tell me what the argument was. I would not come between combmates, but you will tell me enough of this matter that I may see whether it concerns me.”

Bregeleb pauses, and then, slowly,

“Yes, my lord King, it seems to me that I would have come to you perhaps with this. Tirithel – Tirithel saw that – Sindar – and – he says he is in love. He says he has found the One whom he was born to be with, or to follow hopelessly, to serve, to adore.”

It is the knife in his breast that Caradhil dreaded.

“No Sindar prince will look at a Silvan,” he begins, but Bregeleb laughs.

“Lord, I speak not of the prince. Will a Sindar princess see an archer?”

Caradhil looks at him, shaken.

“What, think you, do I know of Sindar princesses?” he asks.

 

 

 

 

Tirithel, it seems, has been busy. Somehow, he has arranged that he should be sat near this princess at the feast – he and Bregeleb, Caradhil notices, and wonders if that is painful, or joyous to this elf he has newly come to respect. He himself, is left with the Sindar princeling – who clearly has listened all too well to his father, and has little to say. Caradhil smiles, and watches the Galadhrim as they too patronise his people, and watches the little knot of Silvans-from-Lorien, who seem – shocked – by all the changes.

As the formal meal ends, and the drinking begins, the prince claims tiredness, days of travelling catching up with him, and takes his leave. Caradhil smiles, sharp teeth and no humour, 

“Rest well, my lord. Indeed, it is true what they say – the time of the Sindar must indeed be ending, and the Golden Wood ready to fail, if the son of Thranduilion leaves a feast while there is still wine flowing – but be that as it may, I bid you sweet dreams in this Forest of ours.”

He does not miss the glare, or the outrage, carefully controlled though both are – you do not scare me, elfling, he thinks. I saw your grandfather’s wrath – I felt his hand in my hair, his sword-point against my neck in his fury. I felt him lift me and shake me like a rabbit – your tantrum is nothing.

He sighs, almost unknowing, and looks again at Bregeleb. And if I had it to do again – would I dare speak as you, he wonders, would I tell my King it was not for him to tell me to whom I might offer my comb? 

Probably not.

So many things were different then – different beyond the imagining of elves born in this Age.

“Lord King – Caradhil – if I may – I would speak with you – for the sake of things as they once were between us?”

He has been distracted, and not noticed Maegsigil approach.

Caradhil raises an eyebrow, and gestures to the seat beside him,

“Of course. Any may sit and speak with me, there is no need to talk of things long gone, no need to plead your right – things are different here in these days,” he smiles, once more with teeth but no humour, “but I err. You know too well the differences – after all, are they not the reason you left?”

He watches, and sees the flush of ear-points that tells him he has scored a hit. Maegsigil swallows and then,

“Indeed. I – I may have been hasty. I – Caradhil – Lord – you know I like not your reforms – but never did I say you were wrong to make them – only that I wished not to live under them,” Caradhil’s memory of the conversation is different, but he shrugs, waiting for more, “I am here – I spoke loudly of my knowledge of you and the Forest – I wished to come – to see you – but – this is too crowded, I cannot speak as I would. I dare not seek private audience with you in formal hours – I – “ he drops his eyes, and Caradhil – Caradhil leans back and looks long and careful, as, “we combed once – you and I – always in a group, in those days – but – might there be – I have dearly missed your touch, my lord King.”

It is that which decides him.

Not the flattery, not the flush, but that little word. “My”. “My lord King.” 

That and the memory of the wide eyes during the introductions. That was a scared elf – and Maegsigil, whatever else he was, was no coward – and no actor.

Caradhil reaches out, and caresses ear-tips, and touches hair, and smiles, a real smile this time,

“It is rare, but – not unheard of – for the King to comb alone with one,” he says, “and yes, like you, I remember those days with delight. Come, pledge me in sight of all, and I you, and then – yes, come with me.”

He raises his glass, and Maegsigil does the same. They look into each other’s eyes, and drink. A full measure – straight down – as is the custom, and the glasses replaced upside down to show no false dealing.

Caradhil stands, and calls out,

“My elves, I leave tonight’s feast. Be joyous in your combing, and take pleasure in song.”

They cheer, and as he turns a little away, he gestures to Maegsigil, who stands also, and, as though he persuades one who is – longing but unsure – he places his arm about Maegsigil’s shoulders, and pulls him close. 

“Make our guests welcome,” he calls, “old friends and new,” and hears his elves cheer as though he has done something praiseworthy, something wonderful by – what is the word – seducing to his comb someone from the unknown Wood.

 

 

When they reach a more private chamber, Caradhil takes his arm from about Maegsigil, and shrugs.

“Sorry,” he says, “that seemed the best way to ensure all thought nothing of it. Doubtless you will have one or two jokes to endure, but I am sure you will manage. And – I do not recognise any others in your party – but I think, elves being elves, they will assume it is merely – combing. No politics talked between us,” he walks to a corner table, and pours wine for each of them, “it is politics, I take it? Not simply the desire of you for my comb?”

Maegsigil nods, grim now.

“It is indeed,” he says, and then with a hint of the elf Caradhil first cared for, “though I would be glad indeed to comb once more with you, Caradhil of the sweet tongue and clever hands.”

“Let us have the politics then,” Caradhil sits, and waits, wine in hand – and then smiles as their eyes meet and all the old desire is there, “politics first,” he corrects himself, “combing – combing after, mellon-nin, for I would not spoil this reunion, so long it has been since I had my hands in your hair, and your voice with mine.”

 

 

 

It is, Caradhil reflects, a joy at times to be an elf – to need little sleep – to be able to go from playing in the leaves, to greeting envoys, to feasting, to politics, to combing and now – now to walk the forest paths, to greet the trees, to know that – whatever else – the trees stand strong and tall, and, when the light grows full – to return to one’s desk, and begin work, mind rested and refreshed simply by that.

Vaguely, he wonders how mortals manage.

Perhaps the best of them learn to do with little sleep, he supposes.

Perhaps that is why they die so very quickly.

His thoughts are wandering, and he shakes himself – as he could not were there any to see. Concentrate, he tells himself, this – this is what you have dreaded, this is the trouble of which you wrote to Canadion, this is the hardest test of all.

Made more difficult now, by the love of his beloved Tirithel for this – what was her name – Miregwen? Some such.

Tirithel – oh my precious son of the son of my son – you do not know what you are doing. What have I done in allowing you to meet this – Sindar?

So long have I wished to see you as happy as your brother, your sister, so long have I wished you in love with one I could see you wed – even, recently, to see you vowed – gone North perhaps – but happy, golden. Yet now – now I wonder what I was about, that I hoped for love for you – now you have fallen for this. 

He sighs, he knows nothing of the elf herself – she may be charming – certainly, compared to her brother she is. She may be all that is wise, and kind, and beautiful – not to his eyes, she is not, but – he supposes he is no judge. Certainly she is tall, and fair, and her blue eyes sparkle with laughter, and her hair is – is golden in the sunlight.

Alone, he allows himself to bury his head in his hands, to lean against a tree for a moment, and to think – yes, she is beautiful, even I can see that – she is like to my prince, to my King – and she is clever, I daresay, even as they.

Is she then also cold, and cunning, and unable to give or show affection?

Unfair, Caradhil, he tells himself – my sweet Legolas was affectionate – unbearably so at times – but this – this is the daughter of Thirthurun. This is the daughter of one who would slap an elfling. 

What scars does she carry, what hurts where it does not show?

And – how can it be that she is so old, and yet unmarried – if she cannot love – she is no use to my Tirithel – what has her life been?

Well, he supposes, there is only one way to find out. 

When there is chance – he will have to talk to her.

However, there is more than this to be concerned over today.

Today there is also this matter which Maegsigil has poured out to him – and Caradhil smiles for a moment in fond remembrance of a well-spent night, a well-used comb, of song, and hands, and pleasure not to be forgotten. 

So. They come now. They think to claim this land – they think he will just go at their command – hand over his elves, and watch from Ithilien as they dismantle all that he has built, as they throw away the plans, relock the library, burn the press and the books, banish Canadion, Doronlas, any other elves of whom they disapprove, end the discussion groups, the combing councils, once more impose Sindar rule – but this time uninvited, unwelcomed.

They are wrong.

He is not the elf they seem to remember. 

These Silvans are not those they once knew.

Above all – they are not Oropher, not Thranduil – they are not loved.

And this is not their Forest.

Caradhil breathes deep, and straightens himself, head held high to wear his crown once more, eyes cold and hard as any King must be, and, as an afterthought, loosens his dagger in his belt.

Just for reassurance.

I am Caradhil, he reminds himself, this – whatever this is – I will do.


	14. Chapter 14

Miregwen, daughter of Thirthurun, waits with her brother as this seemingly unending procession of Silvans enters the Hall. Even without looking, she can tell Armyr is sneering at them – so many, so profligate they seem, and so – strange. Wild. Their hair – all the colours one can imagine, their jewels so proudly worn, their markings so strange – ink, is it, she does not know – their weapons carried clear, knives for the most part, but some also carry bows, as though – as though they were expecting attack.

Perhaps they are, she realises.

It is not a pleasant thought, to know oneself considered a possible oathbreaker, kinslayer.

Beyond all these things, there is something – something in their bearing that is at odds with the elves she remembers, with the elves she knows from their Wood. These elves – they look at their King with love, that is true, but – there is something which says plain – he is our King, and we love him, we will obey him – while we choose.

He has power over us – because we will it. Anything he asks, we will do – because we consent.

They are not afraid, not in awe of him – nor of the elves from Lorien.

For the first time, she looks at Silvans, and the Silvans – look back.

As agreed, Miregwen speaks first, offering the gifts to the King, fine material for garments – but, she sees now, it is wrong, it is the demure grey of Lorien – and grey, it seems, is not a colour Silvans love. Even as she realises, she hears also Armyr’ words, chosen, it seems to insult,

“Our lords sent this, thinking the sewing of it into raiment would occupy your wife and daughters, lord Caradhil – only – they forgot. You have no wife, nor any daughter to grace this Hall – and in this land – there is occupation enough for all, necessities being hard-won as they are.”

Miregwen feels her ears flush with shame that her brother should speak so to one who has offered them bread and shelter.

The King makes no answer, he does not even move, but the feeling of the Hall is – tense, and the Silvans shift, slightly, meaningfully. It seems to Miregwen that there is a reminder – we have many spears – you have but few – and she holds herself straight and tall.

The next gifts – surely these cannot also be wrong – are for the children of the ruling House. Bringing them out, Miregwen smiles, and when she catches Armyr’ eye, he too smiles with remembered pleasure.

For the oldest children – there are pipes, carved from mallorn, a beautiful wood, which gives a perfect tone.

The younger ones – have spiders, black and furry, which by some ingenious means – it is beyond the skill of elves, these were commissioned at great expense from the lands of Men – move. Miregwen remembers one of these once, and the delight of playing with it, of making older elves gasp, has never left.

For the two babies – and for the first time, Miregwen finds herself wondering what it is like to hold a baby, to look at a child of one’s own, and have it look back – for the babies, there are warm, carefully sewn creatures to cuddle and hold. 

“Oliphaunts, my lord,” she repeats, as she was told, “creatures from a distant land.”

And now Armyr steps forward once again, with words she does not quite understand,

“My father thought you would have no need of such a thing, my lord,” and the scornful twist to his lips is clear, “for doubtless an you wanted one, you would have that of my uncle, as you have all else that was by rights his.”

Merigwen looks at Armyr, confused, and showing it, but he does not look back – his gaze is fixed on the King’s face – and then drops, slowly, meaningfully, to the sword he wears at his side.

The silence now is – deadly.

The King does not speak.

There is a gesture, a gesture they have seen used at home, that means – continue.

Miregwen looks at her brother, wondering if he has more words – she does not. 

“My Lords bid me say to you, Caradhil,” Armyr pauses, and then deliberately repeats the name, and emphasises the title, “Caradhil, lord of Ithilien, that the day of your return there is long overdue. The kingdom of my grandfather has been divided too long. Now is the time for all to be made right, for the Forest and the Wood to become one once more, and for the land between to be replanted. They bid you prepare to leave, to take with you those who follow you, who do not accept the rightful rule of Sindar over Silvan – those who were long since cast out from our lands – and no blood needs be shed.”

The King – of all things – the King – laughs.

“Your lands? Your lands you say? Your lands and your elves? You come here, with your tame Galadhrim, your Silvans who do not know their own history, you come here, child, and stand before me – you attempt to offer me insult and threats – I am no fool – I understand very well the meanings of your gifts,” he looks at them as they lie at his feet – in this court, it may be that the gifts were meant for others, but none, Miregwen notices, has dared to move to claim without a gesture from the King, “cloth to show my family are unclothed – pipes to show we make not music you can hear – spiders to remind me of the horrors of this my Forest – and toys that I may know you count even the youngest of my House your enemy.”

He shakes his head in disdain, and raises an eyebrow,

“Fool. You speak of your grandfather and his rule, his kingdom – yet you know nothing of my lord Thranduil, Elven-King of this Forest. Had he wanted me broken – he would have broken me before I even knew his aim. But he did not. This crown I wear – I did not take by force, or cunning. I earnt this crown – I was gifted this crown – and this sword, which is not that of your uncle – for the love of my people – by my care for them I won that which I hold dear. Yes, I have no wife, no daughter to sit long ages at my knees – my daughter rules her own land and is a power beyond your understanding, child. My people go clothed or naked as the mood takes us – our music is not that which pleases Sindar ears – our Forest is dangerous, even as we can be. 

“Go back to your lords, child who lives only on sufferance, and ask them what they think gives them the right to rule even you, when their revered father – my King – did not see fit to hand them either land nor crown nor sword.”

He pauses once more, and then, softly, 

“Whose son are you, Armyr? Are you son to he who would slap an elfling – or to he who would cast out his own child? Do you even know who you are, before you pretend to understand my people and our ways?”

There is silence.

The Silvans look at the delegation.

The Galadhrim stand as they were bid, and among them the Lorien Silvans attempt not to meet the challenging eyes, so similar to their own.

Merigwen waits for Armyr to speak – the question, after all, was addressed to him.

Armyr merely inclines his head, 

“I wondered if such might be your answer,” he says, with a small smile, and turns away, a gesture of his hand indicating that all should follow.

For a long moment Miregwen looks at this – Tirithel – this Silvan who – who seems somehow – to matter.

He looks back.

For a moment, for a moment, Miregwen wonders if – if she should walk towards him, if she should ask questions she has only now begun to consider, if – if there is any course of life that is not merely – being the daughter of Thirthurun.

But he does nothing beyond look – and one cannot suddenly throw up a lifetime’s habits on so little encouragement – surely – one cannot.

However much one would like to.

And so she turns also, and walks away.

 

 

 

The delegation gone – and that was not a successful meeting – he should have kept his temper better, he knows it but – they touched upon all that is raw and aching in him still, still after so long – Caradhil turns to Tirithel.

“Attend me,” he says, and sweeps into a more private chamber.

Once the door is shut he turns, and glares at his – his most dear Tirithel.

“Explain,” he says, and – and sees the ice come down, hears himself – and sighs, “oh Tirithel – Bregeleb told me – you like this – this Sindar – what was her name – Miregwen,” of course, and the echo of her grandmother, of Calenmiril beloved of Thranduil, was another part of the reason for this renewed pain, “do you not?”

Tirithel shifts uneasily, and looks away,

“No, Ada-of-us-all,” he says, and the lie hurts, until he breathes and straightens, and, “no, I do not like her. I think – I think this is the love that all the tales speak so proudly about. I think – I know – I am her elf, whether she wants me or not – I will be thinking of her – I will, with your permission or without – go after her – serve her – if she loves me not, it does not matter to me. I only know I must be at her call.”

Caradhil nods, trying not to hear the echo in the words of a time – a time that is best forgot.

“Then go,” he says, and meets Tirithel’s astonished gaze, “you do not know the truth of me, ionneth-nin, and there is not now time to tell it all. Go after her – now – before they are ready to leave – speak with her. I cannot say I think you do well to go to Lorien – I think it would be foolish – in the extreme. I think her father, her uncle will – quite possibly – have you killed, use you against me. But – go and speak with her. If she feels this – and I cannot tell – then you might be better advised to wait a while, both of you working for peace. Or,” he hesitates, for this will only be seen as an act of aggression, “or she may stay here. Or travel together to another land – away from both your Houses. If she does not – then I leave it to you to decide what it is best for you to do.”

He watches, as, like his father before him, and from all accounts, his father before that, Tirithel forgets all that is in the world, save this elf he loves, and goes.

“Go,” Caradhil says quietly to the empty room, “go, my sweet son of the son of my son, and – and speak your love, live by it, or die by it – but do not fight it down and away, do not let your sense blind you to your heart.”

For a long moment, he closes his eyes, and longs for the power to change the past.

Then he straightens again, and stands tall, for after all – he is Caradhil.

There is, as ever, much to do.

 

 

 

For all the hasty words that were spoken, it is some hours before the delegation leaves.

Perhaps they deliberately do not hurry, Caradhil thinks, hoping that he will relent, will offer apologies and concessions.

If so, they do not know with whom they deal.

However, once they are finally gone, and Doronlas comes to him and he knows which Shadows are following them, which of his elves will see that they are safely out of the Forest – he still cannot relax.

There is no way to ask the question which burns him.

Where is Tirithel?

Where is the son of my son of my son?

Must I lose him also?

Time runs slow, slow and cold as the ice in his veins as he waits.

He has not the heart to seek out his family, such as remain, has not the energy to work, nor the charm to seek combing.

He is sorely tempted to retreat behind that door – but he does not. For in this grief, this grief of children lost, there is no comfort even there.

And so he is still sat at his desk, apparently contemplating nothing when the door opens.

“Ada-of-us-all? I – I thought – I am still here, and,” Tirithel swallows and looks at his feet, then back up to meet Caradhil’s startled gaze, “and I greatly need your counsel.”

Caradhil waits, but no more words come, and by the look of loss and confusion on Tirithel’s face, he begins to assume the worst, to prepare words of comfort, that perhaps that was not love, merely a glancing attraction, that there are other elves out there.

That a life without love is by no means the worst thing.

All the while feeling a cold despair building in him, a culpability, that he has allowed this so-dear ellon to meet Sindar, when surely, surely, somewhere inside he should have known – to any descendent of his, Sindar are a danger. Beautiful and deadly as snakes, they will charm you, trap you, use you, and spit you out, leaving you to crawl through the rest of your life cold and alone without the warmth of their regard, their praise, their need. And the worst of it is, they know not what they do, they mean none of it, they – they have no idea how they play you, and so – you cannot even truly blame them for it. All you can do is remember the moments when all seemed perfect and hold on to that which must be done.

But there are times when it seems they ask too much.

Then Tirithel looks again at his feet, and begins,

“She felt it too. She said. It – she – we – Ada-of-us-all, I have not the words. But I – you were right – to go and speak was the right thing to do. She – oh Ada-of-us-all – she would have left with me, for the people of Daerada’s mother – had it seemed best. But we thought – we felt – surely we should try – try to work for – for a better way forward? There must be a way. She is to go back now – I will stay here – and – each of us will speak with our families. There must be some way to – to keep all content. And allow us to be together. Ada-of-us-all, can you not see some way, some words to make things turn out for the best?”

Caradhil sighs. So. This time, this time, perhaps all will be well.

Perhaps.

“I admire your optimism,” he says, and then, before Tirithel has chance to think about that, goes on, “we will talk of this. But the best way to talk at this time of day, is over wine and food. Come you to the Hall and you shall sit by me, and we will begin this talk.”

 

 

 

Tirithel talks for hours.

Caradhil listens.

He notices that Bregeleb – Bregeleb is absent from the Hall, and makes a note in his mind to seek him out, to ensure he is not – not unhappy.

Although what the King will be able to do, he does not know. Still, there might be something.

And he wishes to show he bears no grudge for the words spoken so honestly between them.

Envy – but no grudge.

Finally the meal is over, and Tirithel has run out of words.

Caradhil has agreed to consider this matter of a vote. To even perhaps suggest it to not only his own elves, but to those Sindar – that they agree to be bound even as he will. That perhaps their elves should also vote, though whether to be done with Sindar or to reject the Forest he is not sure, he found his attention wandering at that moment.

There was a new serving-elf. One he has not seen before.

And something – something in the shimmer of her hair, the way she stepped and looked, and her ears flushed with the consciousness of being watched – something reminded Caradhil of Aglarcu. Or perhaps it was just that the events of the day, and seeing Maegsigil again last night, brought back those years, and the loneliness, the aching loneliness that never goes.

Perhaps it was just all of that, and this elf was no more like to Aglarcu than any other – every other – Silvan.

Still.

Caradhil wonders who she was, and what her name was, and whether – whether it would be so very wrong to find out, and to – to send for her, to have speech with her alone.

Perhaps to comb alone, as he has not done with any for so long, until last night with Maegsigil. Strangely, that seems not to have quenched the urge at all, only to have inflamed it further, to have left him more aware of the pain. That and all the memories reopened by the day.

But now, now Tirithel is finally finished, and speaks of finding his own rest, and group, and talking more with them, and Caradhil – Caradhil finds he no longer desires the comfort that lies behind the door, no, tonight, tonight he needs something more physical to relieve his tension.

He goes to the archery range, quiet and almost deserted as it is at night, and moves to a corner, to a target set up in the shadows, and begins the lonely drill of aim and release, aim and release, collect arrows, aim and release again.

Over and over he shoots, until at last, as the dawn comes, dawn which cannot be seen or felt here, deep in the Forest, he collects his arrows for the last time. Turning once more to return to the Halls, he sees movement and stops, hidden in the lingering darkness.

Watches, and smiles as best he can when he sees – Bregeleb and the new serving elf – whose name he never did find out, and now need not – walking arm in arm, their songs entwined, carefully back towards the Halls.

They have, doubtless, been out among the trees this night. Combing, he would imagine, by the way their hair gleams when they pass under the torches. 

And not just combing, he concludes, as they stop, and kiss, and – and hold each other close for a long moment before Bregeleb walks one way, and the other straightens herself with a smile, a slow secret smile, and heads towards the kitchens and her own work.

For a moment, Caradhil aches for mistakes made, opportunities lost, questions unanswered which he has no right to ask; then he shakes himself a little, and continues his own path to the Halls, to his desk, to work.

If, as for a moment he wondered, this elf could be Aglarcu, somehow no longer in the Halls of Mandos, somehow not gone to Valinor but reborn here – if she is, then Caradhil has no right to do anything but be happy for her if she has so quickly found one to love and care for her. Besides, what does he have to offer – no more than he ever did, and that was never enough.

If not – then there is no matter to it anyway.

Besides, as Droin said, there is always work.

You cannot, do not, live for work – but when there is nothing else, work will give your life a shape, a meaning, a harmony. And if it is not the joyous song and golden delight of which you once dreamed – what use is it to wish, and long for things that can never be?

At least as the years pass, one thing holds true.

Always there is work to be done.


	15. Chapter 15

So today, today it begins.

After all these years of talk, of talk as only elves can talk, finally it begins.

Caradhil has sworn to abide by the word of his elves – assurances have come from Lorien that those Sindar, those brothers, will also abide by it.

The matter of their own elves being granted the opportunity to be considered in such decisions – that was dropped long ago, as Caradhil knew it would be. But raising it, and returning to it, was a useful bargaining point, a way of prolonging the negotiations, of speaking to more and more of those Silvans-in-Lorien, those Galadhrim, and finding out more and more.

Much of it irrelevant, and not even amusing, but still. One thing Caradhil has learnt from the Shadows; there is very little knowledge that is not useful sooner or later, in some way, however unexpected.

There were more nights with Maegsigil as well. More chance for private discussion.

There was a time, he remembers, when he had been worried that this might cause difficulties, but when he mentioned this, Maegsigil laughed, that old easy laugh.

“No, Caradhil, you have no idea,” he said, “they do not think like that. Remember our King – he never questioned the loyalty of any, not until it was in the most grievous doubt,” and Caradhil winces as he remembers moments when his own loyalty was doubted, “ah, not like that, all could see you were torn between them – and our King was no fool – well, these his sons, they are not fools, not exactly, but it does not seem to have occurred to them that to trust unhesitatingly requires a certain – something – to have earnt and inspired the loyalty. And they have not that, but they do not seem to know it.”

And he pushed his head up and into the comb, the hands, and smiled, and their song matched, and – and for a little while, Caradhil felt young once more.

But now, now it begins.

Caradhil twitches his nose, as he runs through the arrangements in his mind. The Semphair, combing groups, discussion groups, groups he encouraged, allowed to grow, to learn to speak their minds, to debate changes, and policies – these Semphair groups will now, after all these months, years, of talking, talking, talking as only elves can talk – these groups will begin to come to the Halls, or to send one to speak for them, and gradually, the will of the elves of the Forest will be found.

Apparently, this is not how such things are done among mortals.

There is still much trade with Esgaroth, and the matter has been discussed – Caradhil suspects discussed at length and with many comments which are not repeated to him – and it seems that the way of mortals is far more – divisive. He shakes his head even as he thinks of it once more, the idea that all should simply choose their own yes or no, that the simple answers should be tallied, that this should govern the land.

No wonder that mortals are so rarely truly behind their leaders, if this is how they do things.

Talking, and talking, and talking, may take longer, but at least at the end of it, it will be clear what should be done.

It will not be simply a matter of numbers.

Mortals, in Caradhil’s opinion, put too much faith in simple numbers.

As for himself, today, as on any other day, there is work to be done.

There is always some work to do, somewhere, if you look hard enough.

“My lord King,” Doronlas has entered without his notice, “I – are you well, my lord?”

Caradhil looks up, and frowns a little at such unaccustomed presumption.

“What is it?” he asks, not having the energy for anything really.

All the time, he is aware of what is being discussed, of what may happen, and he – he is not sure, not quite sure, what he even wants.

To obey the last command of his King. To serve his elves, care for his elves, see that all the things he has achieved continue and grow, throwing out branches, flowering, and strengthening their roots. To see his children’s children, and their children, and on and on becoming all that they can be. To rule here, as the most powerful elf in Arda, as the Galadhrim drift further away, as Silvans become the only elves left on these shores. To stay, as things are, ruling a Forest of elves, sending out Shadows, keeping his finger on the pulse of all that befalls both here and in the wider world, working on and on, the children of his son around him – until they become tired of this kingdom and travel – within Arda, or, as he fears beyond anything, sail. To become, as he sometimes fears he is becoming, cold and remote, bound only to work and care, unapproachable, uncombed – that ultimate irony. 

Or to obey the sons of his King. To accept the command of Thranduiliron as he has accepted all commands, his whole life, from Thranduil, from Thranduiliron. To be deposed. To go to Ithilien – for where else could he go – and have to watch his daughter, his most beloved Tegylwen, work, and be unable to do anything. For how could he ask or expect her to relinquish power – yet how could he now sit and abide by another’s law? 

And what when Ithilien contracts further, as he suspects it will, as Tegylwen has conceded she thinks is possible, as Men become more – noisy – and more elves sail?

What then?

In the last resort, if this Forest is lost to him, if Lorien is no refuge, if Ithilien fails – would he then sail?

And see his King golden and joyous in the arms of another?

The thoughts have circled in his mind so often, it takes little time for them to go round once more, and he does not miss Doronlas’ answer,

“The delegation from Erebor – you said you would speak with them – they are here.”

And work – work is, as it ever has been, his saviour.

 

 

 

 

After the dwarves have left, the discussions among the elves are still progressing, slowly.

Tirithel comes to him, one evening, as he sits over papers, pretending to work.

“Ada-of-us-all, will you not – come and comb with some of us – with your family? Will you not talk to us?” he pauses, and then, “or better still – will you not go out, and talk, drink, comb, with those of your elves who do not know what it is you want them to decide?”

Caradhil looks up abruptly, his attention caught.

Tirithel is perhaps the only elf who could dare this. He comes over, shutting the door, he kneels close beside Caradhil’s chair, rests his head against his arm.

“Do you not know, Ada-of-us-all? They are hesitating because they do not know what you want. They want you – they want your rule, your ways. Oh, some of them speak of changes they would have – but not one of them seriously desires those Sindar to walk in and push us to our knees once more. Your elves – they are your elves – you may flinch all you like – but consider how many of them have been born since you became King. Many. And of the others – many remember you from years ago, they are fond of you, they – they love you, Ada-of-us-all.”

Caradhil shakes his head, wrinkles his nose in doubt; this – this is not right.

“They do not forget the King before,” Tirithel is quick to assure him, “but – he is gone, you are here. And now – now you hide yourself in your room, and they wonder – they fear that you wish to leave.”

And that is the heart of it.

Caradhil looks down at his hands, clasped together on the desk in front of him, and speaks, low and forcing every word through reluctant lips,

“I do not know what I wish. I do not know what is best. I – I do not know what my King would have me do.”

There is silence.

It is the closest Caradhil has come to speaking his own truth in a long, long, while.

The closest he has ever come to deliberately revealing it to any.

He closes his eyes, wishing, again, that Tegylwen was here. That he could speak with his daughter, the only one with whom he has ever spoken of this.

Tirithel waits.

As no more words come, he reaches out, and, hesitatingly, touches Caradhil’s ear.

“Ada-of-us-all,” he says again, “can you – do you wish to tell me?”

Caradhil presses his hands against his eyes.

“No,” he says.

Tirithel sighs, and stands.

“Is there anything – anything – I, we, can do?” he asks.

Caradhil looks up at him, and from somewhere, he finds a smile for this most dear, most beloved ellon.

He should not have favourites, he knows. But somehow – Tirithel is, has always been, just a little special.

“You have done it,” he says, “you have reminded me, I have a duty. I have no right to hide in here. And so I will come out, as you tell me I should. Tomorrow, I will be around, and will eat in Hall, and hope to find a group that will welcome my comb. I shall be – as I should.”

But tonight, tonight, he adds to himself, as he watches Tirithel smile in return, and leave the room, go to spread the news, tonight I shall seek the comfort of illusion and of dreams. Tonight I shall go to the room behind the door.

Tonight at least, whatever may come to pass, tonight I will be no King, and I will rejoice in it.

 

 

 

 

In the morning light, Caradhil braids his hair, and walks out to be among his elves.

Doronlas, loyal and helpful, is there, files in hand, ready to remind him of anything he has forgotten.

But today, today, he is refreshed, he is himself once more.

Today, he will not dwell on what may come.

He will not think of all the things Maegsigil has said, of the plans they have made, the coded warnings that seemed necessary to arrange, the signals, the possibilities.

He will not think of how the happiness of his dearest Tirithel depends on this solution being successful – and that it cannot be successful. Caradhil is no fool – he knows that whatever promises have been given – and what worth does any promise have from one who would slap an elfling – there is no way that those Sindar will ever abide by a decision made by Silvans. 

All the negotiating has given him time to think, time to plan, time to – arm.

And Tirithel and Miregwen have had chance to speak together again and again.

Which has given Caradhil other ideas.

For now, though, for now, he is himself, Caradhil Finbonaurion, and he walks among his elves, speaks with them, eats and drinks with them, sings and combs with them. He is one of them, first among equals perhaps, but one of them, as Silvan as they.

He understands their thoughts, their hints, their habits and customs, not as some Sindar ruler, watching from the outside, trying to make allowances, but as one of them. 

Oh, there are things he dislikes, things he would still change – and he speaks of these, of ideas that Hanben has half-dropped, hinted at, thoughts he and Doronlas have discussed, freedoms that could be brought, luxuries that in truth the Forest could easily provide for all – and yet none have thought to include ordinary Silvans in its bounty.

Never does he say – those Brothers would not give you this – he is not so simple. 

Always does he ask – know you if they in Lorien have that? Speaking of the least of the changes he has made – whichever one seems most popular with his hearers.

Over and over he shows yes, I am one of you, I drink as you drink, I dance as you dance, faster, wilder, for I am Caradhil, I am King-by-acclamation – but still I am Silvan to my very heart’s-core.

Over and over he remembers names, faces, hair, parents, friends, lost-ones. He admires elflings, he speaks the words of sorrow even now for those lost so many, many years ago, for Brethylf, for Aglarcu, for Finrusc, for Bordond, for all his many dead, his and theirs, the sorrow is the same.

Over and over he speaks of trees, places within the Forest he knows well, that have changed perhaps, but can still be remembered in song.

Of times past, and times to come.

Over and over, as the days pass, he uses his comb, he talks.

And, in the end, as perhaps he always knew it would be – what Caradhil thinks today, those he combs tonight think tomorrow.

In truth, there is little persuasion necessary.

Those elves who do not remember Sindar rule – have no reason to long for it.

Those who do – remember a beloved King, who left his crown and sword to this elf, a sweet and much-loved Prince who did the same – and they remember also two brothers who had rarely a good word or a kind thought for any.

So they say now, Caradhil thinks, and swallows down the anger that arises hot as flames even at such great distance. So they say now – but where were they when my sweet prince was young, and afraid, where were they when he was uncombed and crying, where were these elves?

He does not ask, but something perhaps in his eyes and hand shows his question, much though he would like to hide it, to turn away from these thoughts as he always has over the years.

The group disperses, and Caradhil begins to walk out to the archery practice area, always an easy place to meet people, to strike up casual conversation, to begin combing and talking – and persuading without ever seeming to do so.

“I will walk this way also,” an elf from the group he has combed with has fallen into pace with him, and he must calm his breathing, keep pleasant, as he half-acknowledges her presence, but, “I feel your anger when we speak of those days long-gone. You were out in the Forest, you were an archer, hunter, then – you do not know what the Halls were like.”

He swallows, 

“I know enough,” and the words are bitter with all the pain he ever saw in his prince’s eyes, all the pain he could not heal, was never enough to heal.

She looks at him steadily, and he finds himself forced to return her gaze.

“You are not the only elf who loved him,” she says, and he searches for the name, Doroniel, but it means nothing, “I daresay he did not mention me by name. What ellon joining a group to patrol in the Forest for the first time would mention a – nursemaid? But believe me, there were Silvans in plenty who loved him, who saw a little of how it was, who wanted to change things, help in some way.”

Caradhil wrinkles his nose, shrugs, because – what does it matter now? A time long gone, all of it. The prince grew up, became a hero – and threw it all away on that dwarf.

The resentment is still there.

The failure, that he and his elves were never enough, never. Could never love enough, comb enough, care enough to drive out that ache. Only that dwarf and his – fucking – could do that.

But what difference does it make now?

What is done is done, and you must simply live with it, with your mistakes, your blindness, and go on, and on, trying endlessly to – to be what you would wish to seem, to forget the pain, the hurt inside. 

She must see something of it.

“We did what we could,” she goes on, “even as you did. When he was small – we would have combed him – but how could we? Within the walls of the Palace to criticise by our deed the King, the princes? How could we?”

No, Caradhil supposes not.

“I daresay you would not know – but his brothers – those that even now you think you need warn us against – they hated him. Blamed him for the loss of their mother,” she pauses, “I suppose – it is a silly thing, but – leaves show which way the wind blows – there was a toy once, he was fond of it – beyond the age where one would expect such behaviour – we never knew quite what had happened – but it was spoilt, burnt it seemed, though how, how in the Forest that could happen, I do not know. We did not ask – none of us – because we thought – if he had been trying something he should not – no reason to have him punished when he was distressed enough already. And if it was – his brothers – it seemed ill-advised to speak against them, to draw their wrath. He thought it gone, destroyed. We found it, mended it, it was never quite the same, but – the look on his face – you know how he was, always so fragile – his eyes – when he saw it returned. We cared. We cared so very much.”

Caradhil stares into the past, a tiny frightened elfling, crying under a bush. That was the start of it.

“It was an oliphant,” he says, quietly, and swallows. 

She nods, silent.

“They struck him,” he says, suddenly, and it is the first time he has ever spoken of it, “he asked them – begged them – to comb him – just once, just once – that was all he asked for – and they – turned him away. He was an elfling, he was not of age, not nearly – and they struck him when he asked for – for combing.”

He turns and looks at her, though he has no idea what she sees in his face, 

“He never knew I saw. I should not have seen, it was but chance – if chance you call it,” he adds, for he wonders, has always wondered whether it was meant, and if so by whom, for what, that moment when the foundations of his world, of his belief in Sindar rule first rocked, “so yes. Sons of my King though they are, and elves of sense you may be, but I feel the need to warn against their rule. What honour, what trust, what kindness can there be from such elves?”

She nods slowly.

“I did not know that. But – often at feasts, Mid-winter or other times – times of family – we would notice he was – relieved – if they did not appear,” she sighs, “so long ago, so long, and so little now can be done. But there are those who remember them, who remember your prince – you are not alone. Lalfion and I, and there are others. We loved him, and though we loved our King – we will not accept these two, Caradhil Finbonaurion, Elven-King of Eryn Lasgalen.”

Caradhil inclines his head, grateful for her words, and there is silence between them until they reach the archery glade.

“I beg my lord King to give me leave to watch,” Doroniel says now, and there is something in her eye that it is many years since Caradhil saw in one he could speak to so openly, something that reminds him of Meieriel and warms him, “I remember you when you were – friends – with Brethylf – and I would like to see that skill once more,” he nods, the formalities almost meaningless, and she adds, “my – my Doronlas – I have learnt to say child, neither son nor daughter – is content in your office. I am grateful also that their path has been found, and smoothed by you, even without your knowledge.”

Oh.

So Doroniel must be vowed.

Ah well.

That look, then, was merely gratitude to one who recognises her child’s worth, and minds not the words they prefer to use. Caradhil knows his actions were not a deliberate smoothing of path, demanding of acceptance, it was simply – Doronlas is intelligent, and useful, and – and there is not the temptation to begin a combing relationship which might, in the end, do more harm than good.

Caradhil thinks all this swiftly, and replies as one should, and take up a bow – any bow – part of this is to show he thinks himself not overly special – and joins the practice.

He talks, and laughs, and shoots until he is tired, and joins a group for combing, for song, for – for politics and persuasion.

And the tiny voice inside that asks for comfort – for hands to touch him, song to hold him safe – that voice has not been answered these many years, save in dreams.

 

 

 

 

Elves being elves, these things cannot be hurried, cannot be kept to any timetable as mortals would expect.

There is no date, no season even, when the decision must be made – it will be made when all the elves are ready, when it is clear to them, to the delegates, as they are called, and through them to every elf in the Forest, what the decision is. Like a flock of birds preparing to migrate, they do not plan a date, a meeting time and place, they simply – gather, and talk, and sing, and comb, and talk, and talk – until – they know.

Caradhil is, not working, as he might have expected, but sitting, simply sitting, watching, as the children of Talathion, the children of his sister, Tinuwen, are practising with their bows.

So far, they show little aptitude, but they are young, there is plenty of time.

They are elves, there is always time.

They are also the children of the house of Finbonaur, of the House of the Red Star, and so – they are praised, encouraged, adored.

But – there is a moment when all the adult elves fall silent, and look to one another; the children hesitate, and lower their bows; and almost as one, the whole family turns and stares as an elf approaches.

“My lord King,” she says, and Caradhil feels them all move aside, leaving him, he thinks for a mad moment, defenceless as she approaches, “my lord King, I am come from the Council to confirm the decision of your elves, of the elves of the Forest of Eryn Lasgalen. We will not invite in these Sindar. Those who wish for them – and there are some few – have agreed to leave, to go to this other Wood. For ourselves – we stand by our King, and by the will of the King that was.”

For a moment, Caradhil is silent, unable to take in the words.

“We are your elves,” she adds.

He straightens, touches his hair to ensure the braids, the circlet of office – a crown is not suitable for every day wear – are in place.

“I thank you for the tidings,” he says, “let it be as my elves decide. This Forest shall remain a Semphair kingdom – the King rules only by consent of his elves.”

And he follows her to the Council, to hear the acclamation, to the Palace to accept the delight of his people, to the stables, where already messengers are preparing to take this decision to those whom it most concerns – to Lorien, to Ithilien, to the Northern Forest. 

He makes his way to his office, to work.

There is, as always, work to do.


	16. Chapter 16

In all the years she thought about leaving the Forest, travelling, seeing other places, in all the different imaginings, Tinuwen never thought of this.

Never imagined that she would be one of a delegation heading West, sent to speak for their elves to those Sindar. To find a way to say – our elves reject you – and hope that these perfidious brothers will honour the sanctity of heralds. 

Her father was reluctant to send all three of them, but in the end he was reminded, strongly, that it was not his decision.

“There is – I know there is – a tradition in this family of fathers being over-protective of their children,” Caradhil’s face was that immobile mask he uses so often when he is acting the role of Elven-King, and it shook them all to see it used in this, their family glade, “but Caradhlas, son of my son, this is not your decision. I do not ask this as Ada-of-you-all, I command it as your King. You have all said you wish to abide by the will of my elves, to have me as King – an it be not so, I am confident there is a welcome in Ithilien for you, or, be it your preference to cast your lot among mortals, go you to Erebor, to Esgaroth, and I will give you such letters of introduction, such trading goods as I can. But if you stay here, you will obey me. And I – I say we needs must send envoys of good standing to this other realm. They sent their heirs to us, it is only fit that we do likewise.”

And then he stopped, and closed his eyes, and there was silence for a long moment before he spoke again,

“Caradhlas, forgive me penneth-nin,” and strange it seemed to hear that name for their father, “Taithelion, this – this is not what I would choose. But I cannot go myself, I cannot. And to send you – consider. If I send you, I must send you alone. Your children – it is fitting they all three go – and where there are three there is more safety than one.”

Then they looked at each other for a long moment, and Caradhlas slumped a little, and wrinkled his nose before spreading his hands ruefully,

“Besides, I suppose you are going to tell me, as though I do not know, there is no preventing Tirithel going. Very well. You are doubtless right, as you ever are, Daerada. Still I like it not,” and he looked at us, Tinuwen remembers, and shrugged, “what fools elves are when we love.”

Thinking about this, Tinuwen cannot but smile, for she – and for that matter Talathion – were no more fools for love than Caradhlas. They are not ones to court the strange fates suffered by elves who do not marry young, they each met their beloved before they were even of age, and by the time of their first inking, they were able to choose a device to show their love, and as children of the King’s house, to give the red jewels of their House to their chosen ones.

She sighs, and catching her brother’s eye, she knows he also is thinking of the ones they have left behind, of their children – hers approaching adulthood, his still small – all of them missed so very much, days which cannot be recaptured.

Tirithel looks from one to the other.

“I know what you are thinking,” he says, “and I am sorry – it was not my intent that you both should have to come – it is not by my will. But Ada-of-us-all was right when he said that I would have gone anyway. You – you know how it is for me. I love her – she loves me – we have waited these months, years, of negotiation, of consensus-reaching – I cannot wait longer.”

His siblings look at each other,

“You will have to wait,” Talathion says, “you cannot simply – expect her to run away with you, to be married by custom without the goodwill of her family. If you wanted that, better to have done so on that first visit.”

Tirithel drops his eyes, and Tinuwen cannot resist asking,

“But – I have never understood – why did you not do that? Honestly, brother, if you and she had simply – gone to a flet, taken your combs, made your vows – lain together – what then could her family have done but accepted it? And if they liked it not – then you would simply have had to stay among us. As you surely will in the end – for they will never accept a marriage between you. You must know this. Or Ithilien, I suppose you would be welcome there, though strange and wild as they are – it might be much to ask of her.”

Tirithel sets his jaw stubbornly,

“I would not ask her to do such a thing. I would not – I would not place Ada-of-us-all in such a position. Think you there would be any way to avert this – this war – this battle – this kinslaying – had that come to pass?”

Talathion blinks, 

“Kinslaying?” he asks, “I – it will not come to that, it cannot. They are not Noldor, they are not of the accursed. Even the elves among whom they live – those who are not Silvan – they are Galadhrim. Proud, cunning Galadhrim, who have many skills with bow and magic, and live westwards, in an enchanted forest where the trees are made of gold. They are beautiful but their hearts are cold, and they are strange to us,” he has fallen into the rhythm of the old tale, the tale they learnt in childhood, and then, “But strange and cold need not mean – so blind to all good, so lost in pride that they – they would do such a thing.”

Tinuwen is silent.

It need not mean that, no. But – perhaps her brother has not paid attention to the tales of times past, to the times when Galadhrim came to the Forest. To their – assumed superiority, their confidence, their malicious lies when speaking of the Prince Legolas.

She meets her younger brother’s eye, and knows his thoughts run along the same lines, as siblings’ so often do, when he says,

“Of course, for all Daerada’s words – there were no malicious lies there. A delight in gossip-mongering, perhaps. But elves are elves, where there are hands and ears and combs, there will be talk even as there is song. Still, I think we should – have a care for ourselves, for our combs, for our tongues, while we are among these who are not known to us,” and he looks at them both, “barring – barring the realisation of my hopes, muindor-nin, I think we would be best to comb together only, turning aside from any offers. Would that please you also, Tinuwen, muinthel-nin?”

He uses the terms deliberately, Tinuwen supposes, putting time in its place – time is nothing to elves – they are still, and will always be, those three small elflings who tumbled and played in the leaf-litter, who clamoured for stories, who learnt to comb together, and who are bound as none other can be bound. 

This is something, she has heard, that other elves do not fully understand about Silvans, the closeness, the tightness of the bond between siblings. Apparently, so it is said, some Noldor will even refuse to comb siblings when once they are vowed – and, it is whispered, though few elves their age can bring themselves to believe it, the royal brothers, Sindar as they are, never combed the last-born at all.

“I think that would be wise,” she says, even as Talathion nods his agreement, “we do not know the customs, the ways, of these elves. Strength there is in three bound as one – but Tirithel, you will abide by this?”

Of course, as the only unvowed, he has the most to lose by such an agreement, and both she and Talathion are aware of it, but – suggested by him, worded in such a way, how can he say anything but yes?

Disappointed as he may be, he pushes his horse forward, and so – misses the look of relief that passes between them. Relief and – triumph – that the idea came from him in the end. When they spoke of this before leaving, they had hoped that he could be made to see it was best, but to have manoeuvred him to suggest it – that they had not thought possible. 

Ada-of-us-all would be proud, Tinuwen thinks.

It was necessary; Tirithel has a reputation for – being too liberal with his comb at times.

Word may never have come to the ears of Caradhil, but in the Forest there is a saying – those whom Tirithel combs today, will resent deeply those he combs tomorrow. 

Bregeleb is not the only elf to have been left waiting and hoping for too long.

 

 

 

 

Days of travel pass, and they come to the edge of the Wood.

Different it is to their own Forest, different and strange.

The three look at each other, and enter under the eaves. They know they will not get far – that they are doubtless already watched – but they will not seem to show fear by standing on the edge, wavering.

Before long, as they expected, they are surrounded by archers of the Wood, Galadhrim all, their words unclear, uncouth they seem, heavily accented as they are.

Of course, the Galadhrim would say that it is not they who have an accent – but such things are in the ear of the listener, and there are more Silvans of the Forest than Galadhrim of the Wood left in Arda in these days of the Fourth Age.

“More refugees from the tyranny of upstarts,” one says, in a supposed whisper, “ensure that they are sent to bathing pools and reminded of the decencies before they spread any – customs – here.”

Tinuwen can feel her anger rise at such insult, but fortunately before she or Tirithel can show their offence, Talathion speaks,

“We ask not your hospitality for longer than we need to perform our errand. Refugees we are not, as I think you know, Rumil, from the days when you accompanied those negotiating with our revered King. We are the children of the son of his son, and we are here to speak in audience with your Sindar lords, or their children, as it please them.”

Rumil nods, slowly, trying to cover his embarrassment at the discourtesy, and leads them on.

The Wood is not as Tinuwen had expected. Somehow, despite the knowledge that all elven realms – save the Forest – fade, she had thought to see the Mallorns in full gold leaf, thought to feel the air heavy with that which mortals call enchantment.

But it is just – a wood. Leaves lie heavy on the ground, fading from gold to brown, much as in any wood. The trees – have not the extra grace or melodic song which myth had leant them.

The elves – the elves may have golden hair, but, and Tinuwen feels almost guilty to think it, they are not especially graceful, or charming, or even, it seems to her, more warlike, more highly trained than any others. 

As they are led, she catches Talathion’s eye, and knows he also is wondering – what is the fuss about – golden hair is dull and plain when one is used to the richness, the variation of shade, the play of light and colour that Silvan reds and browns give. Perhaps, she thinks, and resolves to tell him later, they are both simply hopelessly uncouth, the nearest elves can be to – peasants – is that not the mortal word? Their tastes not refined enough to be fascinated by gold.

Then they are brought into the presence of the lords, and all such frivolity falls from her mind.

Tirithel, Talathion can see, has eyes only for this love of his, and she likewise. Very well. From all he has heard of these lords, it would be best if only he speak – both his siblings have tempers as flaming as their hair.

“My lords,” he begins, “we come from Eryn Lasgalen, with the decision of our elves. Will you hear it now?”

He expects a courteous acknowledgment, an offer of food, of rest, before the purpose of the visit is done – but, he reflects afterwards, when did these two ever consider anyone but themselves?

“Speak,” one says, “we have waited long enough to return to the kingdom of our father.”

Talathion bites his lip,

“My lords,” he says again, “welcome as guests you will always be in our land. But – the elves of the Forest have decided they wish to abide by your royal father’s last command. They will keep the King they have.”

There is, he has decided on the journey, no good way to say this. To imply that Ada-of-us-all rules by the will of the King that was – that does at least throw the blame onto the shoulders of one who seemingly cared not for these two. More honest it would be to say – the elves of the Forest do not like you, do not like what they remember of you, nor what they hear of you now.

He looks at them both in silence as they stand motionless.

For an instant, he feels sorry for them, imagines how he would feel were the elves to one day reject he and Tinuwen for – he cannot imagine who – but some other whom Ada-of-us-all left regent.

Only Ada-of-us-all would not do that, he thinks, because – because we are so many, and we love him, and do not leave him alone, and would never go against his will.

For an instant he remembers that one of them is Thorodwar, his son rejected and living among the elves of the Northern Forest, his daughter dead, his wife dead. He remembers they both lost a beloved elder brother, watched their mother begin to fade, were shut out by a father too lost to grief to remember them. 

For an instant he feels pity.

But only for an instant – because then everything changes.

 

 

 

 

 

“It would be better if you were gone before light,” Rumil is anxious to be rid of them, “please – please – go home, take word of what has befallen here – persuade your – your King – to agree. There is nothing else to be done. I – one of my brothers is a guard of the court – he will watch over your brother – but I fear he will not be able to release him, only make his confinement more bearable.”

As he speaks he leads them to the edge of the Wood, to where their horses wait, and with them,

“Miregwen!” Tirithel is ahead of his companions, and there is touching of ears, and talking, and many gestures, and – and what would be shouting, Tinuwen thinks dully, recognising the tones, were it not necessary to keep all words from those who might overhear. As though any elf could be deceived as to the feelings of these two, saw they the look in their eyes.

She wonders if this Sindar wishes to come with them – and while she could understand it, she fears for her elder brother if so.

But it seems not.

Even as Rumil is visibly twitching his ears with the strain, the worry, the need to have them gone, Miregwen swirls and departs, while Tirithel is mounting beside her, and at last, Tinuwen thinks, at last they can begin the journey home.

With news that she cannot yet bear to think how to tell.

Talathion – Talathion is held hostage – and will walk free only when there are none of his blood left within the Forest – the Forest that shall be held by those of the House of Oropher once more.

But as he offers a hand to help her mount, Rumil speaks low, 

“I think, were we given the same choice, there are elves of the Wood who might choose as your elves have. Think on it. But think speedily.”

And what that means, she thinks, is that Ada-of-us-all is offered an impossible choice.


	17. Chapter 17

Not really a chapter.

By way of being a quick recap on Names....

(I would like to include the family trees here, but my technical skills are not up to it. So have this now, & I'll work on it...)

 

House of Oropher

Oropher (dies at Dagorlad, his wife presumably either dies there or sails soon after)

Several elder sons (die at Dagorlad)  
And Thranduil who marries Calenmiril of Eregion.

Four sons.

Thalion - dies at Dagorlad.

Thorodwar - marries a Sindar of Mirkwood (not many of them, aristocrats, mostly gone by end of Third Age)  
one son, one daughter  
daughter dies of poison during the events of The Hobbit, "to prevent a coup by her father & uncle"  
son - Cundlas/Cunelas vows/marries Ruinfindil (a Silvan ellon)

Thirthurun - marries a Sindar of Mirkwood, sister to his brother's wife  
one daughter, one son  
daughter - Miregwen  
son - Armyr

Legolas - we all know what happens to him. Marries/vows to Gimli, eventually Sails West, Dies to follow Gimli to the Halls of Mahal/Aule.

 

 

House of the Red Star

 

Finbonaur(m) and Thonneth(f) both die at Dagorlad. Little is known about them.....

One son, Caradhil  
who is never married to Meieriel, but (most unusually) they have elflings anyway.  
one daughter, one son.

Tegylwen - who becomes the ruler of Ithilien when Caradhil leaves to become King of Eryn Lasgalen.  
she marries an Ithilien elf, they have children. And quite probably grandchildren & so on.....

Taithel - who marries an Avari, Râmpânyâ   
she dies before Taithel comes to Eryn Lasgalen.  
(nb. Taithel takes an Avari name, Tiktû, and Caradhil, rather patronisingly, sometimes refers to his daughter-in-law by the Sindar translation Rhawain)  
(Taithel is now dead).  
one son, Caradhlas.

Caradhlas marries an elf of Eryn Lasgalen  
son, daughter, son

Talathion - marries an elf of Eryn Lasgalen  
children, including twin girls

Tinuwen - marries an elf of Ithilien  
children

Tirithel......

 

I think that is everyone so far in the Families....


	18. Chapter 18

Miregwen does not go to her father.

She is not a fool.

Her brother, who _is_ a fool in her opinion, did not notice any change in her during their first visit to Eryn Lasgalen. 

In the years since then, Armyr has commented that she seems – thoughtful – but has failed to draw any conclusions. Fortunately, he has not said anything of the sort to their parents – though, she supposes, the chance of their mother hearing or caring – is not great. It is long since she ceased to pay much attention to anything beyond her embroidery. As for their father – well. Thirthurun seems to still think of them as small elflings, as possessions to be used, seems to be unaware they might have ideas of their own, desires, needs.

As indeed for so long they did not.

But now – now that has changed. Meeting Tirithel – no, not even just that – love him though she does, it is not merely Tirithel that has changed everything. Seeing the world, travelling a little – not enough, she knows now it was not enough, and she wonders if she has something of the urge her unmentioned, unmentionable uncle must have had – to travel through other lands, to meet other races – to live a life that is not constrained by the way elves have always been, by the traditions of the Sindar, not bound by the borders of the Wood. Meeting those strange Silvans of the Forest – all of it made her think.

Made her begin to ask questions.

Questions which cannot be answered – cannot even be voiced here.

Now is not the time.

She goes to her uncle.

“Thordowar, brother of my father,” she begins, kneeling, and as she expected, he raises her, he gestures to sit by him, to speak, even as he holds her hand, seeing still, she knows, the child that she was, the friend of his daughter – so long regretted, missed, “uncle, I beg you – can you not speak to my father? This – he must know – this holding to ransom one who came to us under the truce of herald – this is not right. It – it hardly shows us to be more than those Silvans,” she pauses, seeing this is not enough, “I fear – to act like this – is my father become – misled in his mind? Does he – does he truly mean to carry out his threat, think you?”

Thorodwar shrugs a little and looks away,

“How can I know?” he asks, “it need not come to that. If this – upstart – will but see reason, there is no need for any of it.”

“And if he does not?” she asks, thinking of the – upstart, of his determination, his use of words, his love for that unmentioned uncle of hers, “He is not – I think – an elf given to changing his mind.”

Thorodwar looks back at her,

“No,” he says, and smiles grimly, “but more – the one thing we know of him – the one thing all who speak of him say – he will allow no hurt to his children, to the children of his children. Fool then to let them be put in harm’s way.”

Her blood runs cold, for the first time she understands the phrase, and she realises that the threat is real.

“But – uncle – would you truly do this? Would you – would my father – take part in what must surely be a kinslaying? Put to death an innocent elf for the crimes of the grandfather of his father? Would you see me take blood-guilt for all that Oropher did amiss?”

There is silence.

“Will not such a deed mean the West is closed to you – to both of you?”

Thorodwar stands, and walks away, but Miregwen has one more question,

“And if the West is closed – how then will you ever be reunited with my aunt, my cousin?”

And the final shot,

“You may care little for the chance of reunion with your father – but what of your mother – will you never go to her?”

 

 

 

 

Caradhil listens as Tirithel and Tinuwen tell of the perfidy of these Sindar.

There are not words enough in any tongue for such treachery, it seems to him.

Or such guilt.

He can barely look at Caradhlas, at the wife and children of Talathion.

He reaches for the crown, the crown he has worn so long, the crown he loathes. For a long moment, he is tempted to throw it, cast it away from him like the instrument of ill-omen he has come to believe it is.

He does not.

He sets it down, carefully, gently.

“It is over, then,” he says, and looks up once more, “I ride to Lorien. Alone. The House of the Red Star has had its day. I will see no harm come to him, the son of the son of my son.”

For a moment, he does not understand the words they are saying, they all speak as only elves can speak, loud and endless, a clamour of song and repetition.

They stop, and Caradhlas speaks alone and clear,

“Daerada, we – Talathion – would not ask that. How can you think we would? He – we – have no reason to believe the word of these elves. They have shown themselves to be without honour, without worth.”

“Without worth,”  
“Lacking in all honour,”  
“No reason to believe them,”  
“No trust at all,”  
“No honour,”  
“None owed,”  
“Nothing owed to them,”  
“No right to rule, no right to any of this.”

“It seems to me,” it is the wife of Talathion who speaks now, and Caradhil cannot bring himself to think how she must feel, can barely look at her children, “it seems to me that there can be no thought of giving your elves into these hands. How could you? To be King is to care for all – and these – they care for none but their own pride.”

Tinuwen and her husband gesture in agreement, 

“If ever there was a time to draw weapon – this is it,” she says, and Caradhil is awed once more at the strength of the love between brothers and sisters, “you can no more desert your elves than my brother. There will be none in this Forest who will not follow you. You are our King – call us out to battle – we, they, are your elves, and fight for you.”

He listens, he hears their words, but he does not speak.

After what seems a long time, a very long time, they leave.

Alone in his study, he sits and asks himself – how did it come to this?

 

 

 

 

Many leagues away, another elf is asking himself the same question.

How did it come to this?

How did choosing to remain, to stay among the trees he has loved so long, so well, how did that become serving these Sindar?

His lord was Sindar, but – he, and his brothers, served the Lady. All elves here served the Lady.

The lord was only a consort.

A beloved consort, a well-respected, learned consort, a consort whose opinion was sought, heeded, but – a consort.

Still it seems strange that he now must bow the knee to ellyn.

There was a time when it seemed that the daughter of the daughter of the Lady might rule, but as the years passed, it became clear she had no desire to do so.

She waited only for the Gift of Man, waited to join her beloved.

The end of such a tale is familiar from song and tale, yet – to an elf who has not, does not, will not, love – it is strange.

Her brothers – bound as brothers bind – a binding he can understand, like as it is to his own vowing – they would not rule, concerned only with her, and then with leaving, with departing these shores, being reunited with their parents. And, he reminds himself, it was good to know the Lady and her consort lord would be reunited again, that they would have with them in those Western Lands all who now remain of their house.

But.

These Sindar.

They take captive one who came in peace, under the sacred truce of herald.

They threaten kinslaying.

They say – he is not held close in their counsel, but he hears rumours – vowed he may be, but his comb is still at liberty when his brothers are at duty elsewhere within the realm – they say they will even take back the lands, the Forest, by force, if the threat itself does not achieve their ends.

Such a war cannot be right, elf against elf, for land only.

He does not hold out much hope that all the Galadhrim will refuse to fight. Some will, but some – some will see only their duty to their sworn lords, will abdicate all conscience, as elves who follow lords so often do.

There must be a way to avert this, but – he is but a simple warden – he has no power, no standing.

No influence beyond the reach of his comb.

Haldir sighs, and determines that what influence he does have, he will use.

He will put his comb into the service of peace, not thinking of those strange and ragged Silvans whom he confirms in their rule by so doing. He will ask those to whom he speaks whether they truly think that dark and uncanny Forest worth a single arrow.

He sighs again.

How did it come to this?

 

 

 

 

How did it come to this?

How did leaving a Forest which was like to be dragged into the Fourth Age, the Age of Men, the ways of Men, a Forest losing its customs, its identity, all that once made it safe, hidden and secret – how did leaving that for a Wood known for mystery, become this?

How did the hurt of a rejected – not lover, never lover, and not-quite-ever-combmate – how did that become this eagerness to show himself worthy, to show he has changed, he understands, he admires the good and forgives the errors?

How did this Wood, which was once home, become so foreign; how did these Sindar, sons of the King-that-was, become so – strange; how did another Silvan, no better than he, younger indeed, less educated, less in many ways – how did he become the King-that-is, and how did I change so that I would dare anything – almost anything – to support his rule?

Maegsigil has no answers to any of it.

But as he sits, and sees food brought to the prisoner, sees the prisoner turn his head away, refuse to acknowledge either the guards or the food, he asks the questions over and over, until at last he rises.

The guard is one he knows, a Galadhrim, but one with whom he has combed, spoken, sung,

“By your leave,” he says, “let me at least try to speak to him – if he continues like this, he may fall into fading – and that will help none. Least of all you, I think.”

Orophin shrugs,

“If you will,” he says, “though in all honesty, it seems to me a lost cause. It is in my heart that he has perhaps never been enclosed before, that like this his heart aches and his fea sickens. If our lords truly intend to bargain – I can only hope they move speedily.”

Maegsigil nods, and approaches the rough shelter where Talathion is held.

“I greet you,” he says, and then, “I am one who knew your – your King, the father of your father’s father – long ago. I – you and I have spoken, I think, at some of these meetings that have now truly come to nought. Will you tell me – what can we do for you – what food, what drink – what comforts can be brought?”

There is no answer.

Maegsigil sits by the door, and his presence, he tells himself, does at least allow the elf inside to know he is not forgotten, to know that there are Silvans around him, he is not alone among elves of a different race, and, when Orophin agrees, they open the door a little, allow some movement of air, some glimmer of starlight within.

But the elf inside neither moves nor speaks, though Maegsigil sits as long as he dares, and speaks as companionably as he may.

After the dawn has come, the guard changes, and the new elf, though pleasant enough, is too afraid of rebuke to allow Maegsigil to stay.

He stands, and drawing shut the door once again, he at last gets a glimpse of the elf he has spent the night trying to engage.

Walking away, he finds he must lean on a tree, hands pressed to eyes, for a long time until he can control his breath and song once more.

He had not before seen how closely Talathion resembles Caradhil all those years ago – he has changed more than one realises. 

Always Caradhil was an enigma, but – how did it come to this, Maegsigil asks again, though he does not hope for answer.

He walks away, and searches for a group with whom to comb, to find comfort and understanding.

 

 

 

 

How did it come to this?

This is not how it was supposed to be.

Caradhil does not want this, does not want to be leading an army – an army – of elves – his elves, they say, though they will not let him command them to go home – against the sons of his King.

This is – wrong.

Wrong beyond that which words can express.

He tried to say – he did say – over and over – but they would not listen.

For the first time, they would not listen to him – none of them.

Of course, of course, he would do anything for his Talathion, his bright one, of course he would. He was going to.

To leave the Forest, to know that all he has built here would be torn apart – that meant nothing to him – not even to know that those in the Northern Woods would be forced to leave, that so many would be given the choice between living in a way that they no longer want – or Ithilien, and knowing there is not really a life there for elves, not this many elves, not with the way Men are – or travelling East, competing with the elves who have made those lands their home – or Sailing. None of it meant anything, even though he knew it should grieve him – all that mattered was seeing Talathion released, free to go to his wife, his children, his parents, his sister and brother.

Even though he knew he would not return.

He is not the trusting fool they all seem to think. 

He knew full well, the moment he was in the realm of the brothers, they would find a reason to keep him there, and then – well, they have not hesitated to threaten Talathion with death, and he is innocent. Caradhil has no illusions about his own intended fate.

It mattered not.

But now – now all his elves, his Silvans, have refused to listen.

They march, as long ago he saw them march out at the side of his King.

The flag over them no longer the banner of the house of Oropher, nor the bow and hammer of Ithilien, not the golden crossed crescent hunting-bow and dagger of the Northern Reaches but a new flag, red stars on the green of Oropher, the green of the Forest; a flag for what he cannot but believe is the last march of the House of the Red Star.

They say they will have none of these Sindar. That they have decided, that there are few if any who want the old ways, and those few – who have formed themselves into a separate company – do not ask that the old ways return to the Forest. 

They say they will keep their new-found expression, their arguments, their Semphair groups, their colours and paints, their jewels, their changed music, their comforts and innovations. Their trade, their riches, their literacy, their learning, their freedom.

They are prepared, at last, they say, at last they are prepared to fight not simply for a cause their King tells them is good, but for themselves.

And so they march behind him, behind his family.

Caradhil has never been so afraid, so aware of what this confrontation may cost – must cost – win or lose, there will be losses. And there is not one single elf, not one, that he wishes to see laid out, cold and with unnaturally closed eyes, not one that he can do without, not one whose death he wishes laid at his door.

He knows – whatever he says, whatever his elves say – he is the King. All blame attaches to the King.

Whatever words he speaks, however reluctant he may be – he will be remembered as marching eagerly to war, as beckoning it on, as glorying in every sweep of his sword, every biting word that brings it nearer. The guilt of it will be his forever, in song and tale, what matter the truth of it?

None of it does he consent to – but for all that, he knows, he knows, how it came to this.

Even so, he is frantically thinking, thinking, trying to find a way out, a way round, somehow, his brain circling like an elf caught in a mine, endlessly up and down, round and round, past the points he has already considered, searching, searching for some escape.

There must be a way.

If only he can find it.


	19. Chapter 19

_“Pylidh lasto i legrim linnad,_   
_Linnad i lind ruithui edhel?_   
_I lind legrim i unathar ad muil……”_

And when were you ever slaves, Caradhil wants to turn and ask the elves – his elves – behind him, around him? When?

You were not slaves to my King – you would not let him leave, you needed his rule so. And as for these his sons – no elf was forced to stay with them, to heed them if they were better suited to another part of the Forest.

He does not say any of it.

Elves are elves – elves like stories, and every tale must make sense, must have heroes, villains, unsurmountable odds.

You cannot rule Silvans without understanding them. Besides, it is a good song, and elves must sing.

Otherwise they are but – pretty mortals who live too long.

He keeps silent, and lets the march continue, his thoughts returning once more to the problem before him, searching, searching for a solution.

 

 

When they approach the Wood, Caradhil does wonder whether this is wise, to sweep in like this, but – how else?

In the end, they agree to stop just under the eaves of the trees, where their protection can be felt, but not far enough inside to be a threat.

No more of a threat than an army usually is, when it arrives on the border of your land, and sits there, Caradhil thinks, hearing Doronlas say this.

He is trying very hard to forget the last time he was part of an army sitting on the borders of another land, watching his King speak to a proud lord, trying to forget what happened, how many were slain.

All the same, he is no fool.

“I know we are supposed to rest assured in these days of the Peace of the Kings of Men,” he says to Tinuwen, “but I – I am not so sanguine. See that a good watch is posted – not just into the Wood, but out – I do not fully believe that all the orcs, the goblins, the wolves, the wargs, all of them are dead.”

He knows she sighs, that all the elves of this later age are disbelieving.

But he worries – it is his place to worry – it would be too easy for any to take advantage of a division between elves.

As has been done before – will elves not learn from the past? Of all races, he thinks, we should, so many of us remember so much of it – yet still we seem condemned to repeat it, over and over, arguing over – land, prestige, nothing that matters, not really.

The host waits, as only elves can wait, quiet, a perfect understanding held between them all.

It matters not how long they wait.

 

 

 

This is not what Haldir expected.

Word came from his brother Rumil, that Silvans were sighted approaching, that he should come, ‘as one who knows the court’ to speak with them. He assumed a small deputation, perhaps even refugees once more, not this army, and he looks to his brother in confusion.

“It seemed to me,” Rumil is bland, “that it might be well if you and I were to speak with these – you have news and understanding of what occurs in the centre of the Wood, I have met with some of them before. It is possible that our lords would – find it difficult to reach any agreement on any subject with these Silvan Royals.”

A look of comprehension passes between them.

They walk forth.

 

 

 

There is a long moment when Haldir and Caradhil look at each other, each wondering, listening to the song of the other, and – yes. It is he, it is the one I spoke to, shared a comb with, all those years ago.

I did not know, did not expect this.

I did not, Haldir thinks, know when I spoke of the friendship of an elf for a dwarf, that the elf to whom I spoke was assumed to be – waiting – for that Sindar. How could I have known? How could I know my words might hurt, might be the first intimation that things were not to be as he had hoped? How could I have known? Indeed, I could wish we had parted more affectionately – as we should, his skill being what it is with hand and comb – but – how could I have known?

Yet if I had – would I have spoken different?

I did not, Caradhil thinks, I did not know that seeing this one, of all Galadhrim, would hurt so much, would bring back those days and nights of waiting. Those months of not knowing where my prince journeyed, not knowing if he lived, those months of not believing he could be friends with a dwarf, not knowing what that could mean. How could I have then known that friends – friends was the least of it. That he – my sweet prince – would die for it, for that which they mocked. And now – now I must think of my beloved Talathion in the hands of one such as he – must hand myself over. Indeed, I could wish we had parted more affectionately – as we should, his skill being what it is with hand and comb – but – how could I have known?

Yet if I had – would I have spoken different?

They blink, slowly, sizing each other up like cats, grateful for the formalities, the etiquette of the situation, the proper words that allow them to say so much and so little.

They do not say – I know you, I recognise you.

They do not say – I am sorry.

Instead, Caradhil explains he is here to accompany his son home, to relieve his hosts from the burden of his company, unwell as he must be not to have travelled with his siblings, grateful as they are for the care taken of a herald, a messenger, that most beloved of the Valar.

Haldir carefully listens, and yes, this might serve to buy some more time. He apologises that it is not possible to allow such a host further within the Wood, they must stay here. Doubtless their missing prince will be brought to them, in the meantime he will ensure all comforts are provided.

Caradhil listens, and wonders if this is supposed to convince his elves that they would be well-cared-for under this rule.

He inclines his head, acknowledging the thoughtfulness, and the two return to their followers.

Haldir looks at Rumil, 

“What – what in the name of the lord of eagles – are we going to do now?” he asks, “You can see how many of them there are. The word we had that the Silvans of the Forest were dwindling, would seem to have been mistaken. We cannot – no, we can fight, one can always fight, whatever the odds, but – you know, I know, this is a battle that should not happen anyway. And now it is one we are unlikely to win. So now what?”

Rumil wrinkles his nose,

“Delay, I suppose,” he says, “delay, and delay, and hope that crafty fox out there can think of something. I doubt he is Thranduil’s heir for nothing. If he has one tenth of the old King’s cunning, he will be able to think his way out of such a trap as our lords have set.”

Their eyes meet, and they know they share an opinion of said lords.

 

 

 

 

Within the Silvan encampment, a quiet has fallen. There is nothing much to be done, and elves – elves are good at doing nothing.

They sit, they sing, they comb, they talk, as only elves can talk.

And when, as the time passes, old friends come – who shall say nay?

Old friends who seem somehow – diminished by the years.

Making the rounds, speaking to his elves, as he remembers a King should do, Caradhil notices the newcomers, and decides it is perhaps best not to make any comment beyond – a greeting, an inquiry to how life treats them, a smile, and – when combs are offered – yes, a little time here, and there – what harm in it?

What harm indeed?

Now, that is a thought.

 

 

 

 

Tirithel has been on edge ever since they set out.

He cannot stop wondering when he will see her again.

Or what will happen when he does.

Where can they – how can they – what can they – how soon can they be together?

That is all that matters, to be with her, to be loved, to love, to marry. Nothing else. Vaguely he is aware of all the politics, the drama, the threat to his brother – of whom he is really very fond – but none of it really registers with him.

All that matters is her, and being together.

Tirithel is, after all, an elf.

He loves as elves love.

Completely, utterly, and forever.

To the exclusion of all else.

 

 

 

Miregwen has been unable to keep away.

There is nothing she can achieve, she knows this. Orophin, and the other guards, are not unkind, not the sort to make a prisoner more uncomfortable, unhappy than he need be. 

But she cannot seem to keep away. 

Talathion – is the brother of the elf she loves. She cannot help but feel – guilty – he is here and she knows he came – they all came – trusting – because, partly because, because Tirithel feels as she does. 

A few times she tries to speak to Talathion, but he will not answer, sunk into himself as he is, all his energy poured into simply believing he will see his wife, his children again. 

She is standing near, wondering what she can do – if there is anything she can do – to make things right, to make things well. She cannot believe – she will not believe – she could have waited so long – so very, very long – to meet the one elf who can make her feel like this – and then to have – to have her father, her uncle – their schemes to get in the way. Their schemes, their schemes to take back the Forest – the Forest which was dark, and gloomy, and frightening, and where she was not to travel alone, not to spend time with Silvans, not to do anything unbefitting one of the royal family.

She sighs.

So many things, so many years, so long, so much wasted time, so many things that now, now she wonders about.

Her uncle.

Her cousins.

Her aunt.

Her grandmother.

Her grandfather.

What happened, where did they go, why? How did they die?

Does it matter?

Does anything matter beyond this need, this urgency, this calling, this – love?

Miregwen is also an elf.

 

 

 

Orophin has been valiantly pretending not to notice the daughter of the lord Thirthurun all these days, as seems wisest, until now.

Now, when his brother arrives, out of breath and flustered, inasmuch as an elf can be, he does not point her out, he simply listens as Rumil begins,

“The Silvans have come. All of them, it seems. Their King, many, many of them. An army. They are camped – at present, I do not know how long they will stay – on the border. Our brother has sent me to – to warn you – and to then go to our lords, to tell them the news. But I was to warn you first. We may – we may need – I do not know what he has planned. I am not sure he has anything planned. I have never seen Haldir so worried – he was even saying he hoped, trusted that the Silvan Upstart had a scheme – he must be concerned indeed to speak so.”

And before Orophin can say stop, wait, what do you mean, Miregwen is at their side, and demanding where, exactly where – and then she is gone.

The brothers look at each other.

“It is like that then,” Rumil says, “I thought so, when they left, the brother and sister – she and the brother – they look only at each other. They have no sense left in them. And now – now what will happen? What will our lords make of this?”

Orophin shakes his head, and reaches for the touch of ears for reassurance,

“Nothing good,” he says, “nothing good can come of this, that I am sure.”

 

 

 

 

“A night and a day, and a night we have been kept here waiting – where are your lords – what can possibly be more urgent to them, than the return of my child to me?” Caradhlas is angry, out of control, or seeming so.

Haldir shrugs, bland and calm as ever,

“When one is ruler, there are many demands on one’s time,” he says, “I understand you would not know this, but believe me, so it is. I assure you, your son is well, he is in the hands of my own brother – no harm will come to him for this delay,” he flicks his eyes to the other Silvan, “and if I am not much mistaken, there are some among both our peoples who have taken advantage of these hours.”

Caradhil raises one brow, 

“Indeed?” he says, “I could not possibly comment on the actions of my elves in their own time, not being a – there is no word in our tongue – not being one to own my elves.” He looks at Caradhlas, “peace, son of my son. Talking, waiting, that is the way of elves, and it seems to me good that we are not as mortals to rush in without thinking,” he sighs, and adds, “long will I tarry, ere I begin this war for land. I do not want this Wood,” he meets Haldir’s eyes, and wonders what he reads there, “if my elves wanted these Sindar I would not say them nay. This is not an army of invasion, nor of incitement to rebellion,” he uses the Westron word, not liking the overtones of the Sindarin, for long it has been since he was able to be content in the order of the world, in the places assigned by the Valar, long since he began to wish to strive for more than that to which he was born, “this is an expedition to escort home one who was lost – and indeed, any who wish to join us – and to,” he pauses, “to make clear the strength of feeling within the Forest.”

Haldir inclines his head,

“Then you and I, my lord, might well agree,” he says, “for believe me, grateful though those of us who sampled the hospitality of your realm all those centuries ago were and remain – it was a strange land to me, to all my kin. Your ways are not ours – yet this delay seems to me also a chance for those of us who truly desire peace to find it, before the march of words and events moves us on into a storm from which we cannot escape.”

Caradhil inclines his head also, acknowledging the sense in this, and, despite his love for the Forest, amused at the thought of all these brave Galadhrim of the Enchanted Wood being unnerved.

“The spiders are not so fierce nor large these days,” he says, quietly, “long it is since any larger than,” he shrugs, “a small dog, perhaps, were seen. And they seem to have learnt to keep away from the inhabited regions. A change in the times, I suppose.”

And as Haldir forcibly prevents himself from shuddering, Caradhil watches with something that is close to satisfaction before turning away, to continue this wait among his own elves.

Besides, the thought that came to him days ago is now full-grown and ready for sharing.

If these Sindar will not come, but the Galadhrim cannot keep away – then let elves be elves. Let fires be lit, let songs be sung and shared, let combs be offered – let groups form, mixed groups, Galadhrim, Silvans of the Wood, Silvans of the Forest. Let them speak, and, as they speak, as the evening and night bring relaxation and comfort – at some of the fires, many of the fires, there will be Caradhil, Tinuwen, Tirithel, the children of Talathion, the children of Tinuwen – all the elves of his house. All of them with their combs, and their words, all of them skilled and persuasive, without even trying or considering their actions. 

Let these elves who know him and his Forest not at all see how the House of the Red Star is held in affection, welcomed and listened to. Let them see how his elves will know why they wait, and hear his elves talk – as only elves can talk – of what to do, of how life is and should be, of the horrors of war, the benefits of peace; of the changes in the Forest, of the Semphair groups, the innovations, the Northern Reaches. Let those who live here under the rule of these brothers learn how decisions can be made and debated by all.

And then – then we shall see what may come to pass.


	20. Chapter 20

So it has come to this.

The lords – the Sindar – those who were once princes – Thranduiliron – stand with their elves arrayed behind them, their prisoner, head down, hair concealing face, arms held behind his back by one of their Galadhrim. 

Caradhil stands, head up, facing them.

“I am here,” he says, “now, what would you demand of me that you will let free my beloved Talathion, child of my House?”

One of them answers, Caradhil does not know which, and nor does he truly care,

“That which is ours by right, that which we will take from your corpse if we must, that which we will have, though it cost all the elves you call yours, and many of ours. That which you have no right to claim, hunter, that which we will, if we must, burn every tree between here and the Sea ere we see it left in your hands. The crown of our Father, the sword of our Father, and the allegiance of those elves who were once his and who wish to stay in our lands – our lands – the Wood and the Forest, reunited as they should now be.”

Caradhil listens, and knows all the elves listen also.

He knows what his elves will think.

He looks beyond the lords, to see the flicker of doubt, the slight showings of unease in the ranks beyond them.

But it is not his to use.

He cannot abandon one of his blood. What right would he have to condemn these two for their treatment of Cunelas, that Sindar who lives in the North, if he did?

Even as he thinks this, he sees in his mind the horror that is war. 

He will not call down war upon his elves for any cause, certainly not to keep himself in power – however much that is their will, he cannot do it.

But as he meets the eye of the speaking lord, he shivers at the coldness he sees there. A coldness which makes Thranduil seem warm.

A coldness which threatens – and he hears the words again – not only his own death, which he counts little, but the death of all his elves, of their own elves, the burning of trees. A coldness, an unelvenness that does not heed the words of others, that cannot be reasoned with, that knows nothing but its own implacable will, that threatens anything, the destruction of all that bows not to its desires. Threatens it and cares not, does not see the enormity of the crimes they would commit.

The crimes from which, in the end, he must save them.

They are Thranduiliron.

He cannot allow them to make kin-slayers of themselves.

Slowly he raises his hands, he lifts the crown from his head and looks at it for a long moment.

He places it on the ground, he unbuckles his belt and looks at the sword before placing it there also.

“There they are,” he says, and then, “but I do not choose lightly to surrender them to you. It seems to me I was entrusted with them by your Father. I, not you. And if you now would have the Forest – and I – how can I stand against you? All I can do is say once more – I was entrusted by your Father, not you. If his word carries no weight with you – then by what right does his blood make you ruler of Silvans? What surety do you offer my elves, my people, that you will do right by them?”

The other Sindar walks towards him,

“Surety? You – hunter – Silvan – you ask us for surety? I will give you this surety – that if you do not as we demand, this, your – “ he makes a gesture, every bit as scornful as his father’s would have been, though not as beautiful, he has not the same grace – and what am I, Caradhil thinks in despair, that at this moment I notice and think of this, “your grandson, or whatever he is, if you even know, to such uncontrolled breeding as Silvans left alone seem to turn – if you do not as we demand, he will die, now, in front of you.”

Caradhil hears the cries of Caradhlas, of mother, wife, children, sister, brother, friends, all those who love dearly Talathion.

He himself, is staring at the Silvan prisoner.

That hair is not right, he knows it, and he recognises the braids – the braids are those of Talathion yet it is not Talathion, the colour is wrong, the texture, he can see, in his mind he can feel it, but he cannot place it, for a long moment he stares, searching, searching for a name.

Then, even as the outcry continues, the Silvan raises his head at last, and Caradhil knows him.

Their eyes meet, and for the first time, Caradhil recognises what he sees in the other’s. For the first time for many years, he is back on the slopes of Erebor, cradling a dying elf in his lap, wishing and longing for the chance to make amends, to do things right.

It was too late then, as he is cold with the fear it is too late now.

Silence.

Loud as elves can be, louder rings their silence, until Caradhlas speaks,

“That is not my son. Where is my son? Have you slain him already in your treachery?”

The Sindar looks down his nose at him,

“Not your son – then your so-called king will care nothing if I dispose of him?” and his sword moves, fast, before anyone can speak.

Before Caradhil can say or do anything Maegsigil – Maegsigil is dead. Dead, and lies with eyes open staring at nothing. Dead and dishonoured by more than the blood that stains his lying braids.

Murdered by his chosen lord.

The Sindar cleans his blade on the fallen body, and somehow, somehow that is the worst of it – that he should think so little of him, to treat him so.

“He was not an elf of the Forest these long years,” Caradhil says, low and seemingly quiet, but his voice is pitched carefully to carry to all ears, “he came from here long ago, long ago when Silvans lived here or hereabouts in harmony with Galadhrim. His family died, slain by the evil that wakened under the mountains, the shadow and flame that the dwarves disturbed. Terrified, many fled – know you not the history of this your taken realm? Many sailed, many were scattered, some there were came to the Forest and sheltered under our trees, sheltered in the protection of my King – know you not even the events of your own life, your own home as it then was? Oh Maegsigil, Maegsigil, weep I for you, for your trust betrayed, your laughter and your song silenced, for your life of wandering. Indeed, he was refugee when he came to us, refugee when he returned here – he was one of your Silvans. One who left the Forest for love of the rule of Sindar. Do you not even know your own elves?”

And the – the murderer shrugs, unconcerned, while the other Sindar – the other Sindar turns to the guard, 

“You knew – you must have known this had been done. When will you Galadhrim learn, your brains are not the best of you – we value you for your obedience – if that is not forthcoming,” he shrugs, and in an identical gesture to his brother, he also moves his sword.

Before any can speak, before clemency can be asked, before pleas can be heard – Orophin is dead. Dead and lies beside Maegsigil, Galadhrim hair mixed with Silvan, their blood as it mingles the same colour. And in the end all the differences between elf and elf seem nothing – the only difference that matters is between living and dead. 

Between those with a future, with time to change the course of events, and those for whom time has stopped.

There is an indrawing of breath.

“He was an elf of this Wood all his life,” it is not Caradhil who speaks this time, and though the voice is as controlled, the grief is deeper, the guilt less, “he chose as I, his brother, to stay here, to serve you. We stayed under your rule, serving you as our lords, for love of these trees. Do you care nothing for your own elves?”

The silence is deeper than before, the watching elves waiting for some lead, some indication.

Caradhil looks at Haldir, 

“It seems to me that here in this Wood, you have forgotten – you have perhaps never known – what it is that a King – an Elven-King is. What duty an Elven-King has to his elves, what the words mean.”

Haldir is fighting his own battle with tears and the longing to simply give in. His hands clench at his sides, his mouth betrays him with a tightening clear to a careful eye, and he does not speak.

That is what is so surprising to Caradhil.

It is not Haldir who speaks.

It does not need to be – there is no need to rouse up, to incite, to even ask.

Almost as one, the elves of the Wood begin to move.

They do not speak, they do not even seem to look one to another.

They simply – fade away.

Into the trees they love.

Until only the Sindar are left under the watchful eyes of the army of Silvans, every one of them an arrow ready, waiting only his word – his word – that it should come to this; the Sindar and Haldir, and Rumil. That must be Rumil, the other brother, Caradhil realises as he takes Haldir’s hands, and they stand all attention only on each other. Slowly, gradually, hands find ears, and hair, and breathing becomes calm.

“Why?” Haldir asks, and Rumil looks at the body of their brother, before he answers,

“Because – because we agree with you, brother. This Wood – these lords – are not right for us, and this – this was wrong. To take one captive, to offer threat – so when this Silvan came, said take me, let the other go, it seemed good. The other – went with the lady – I do not know where,” he pauses, then, “perhaps we should have asked their plan. We did not think. And then – we did not think of any risk to Orophin. Forgive me, brother.”

Haldir shakes his head. No forgiveness is necessary.

The Sindar are angry, there is bluster and more threats, and Caradhil supposes he should really be doing something about them, about his Silvans whose anger he can feel and hear as it rises, anger which is still contained, still awaits his word – but at this moment, there is something more important.

He walks to the body of Maegsigil, and closes his eyes, tidies him, strokes his ears one last time, arranges his hair.

For a long moment, he stands, looking at him.

Then he bids him farewell, his hand gesturing respect, love, from me to you, and approaches the brothers again.

“Rumil,” he begins, “I am sorry for your loss. I grieve for you. And I cannot even give you the time you deserve – I must ask – where is Talathion – with whom is he gone?”

There will be time for more questions later.

Rumil looks confused.

“With the lady,” he says again, and then gestures to the Sindar, “the lady Miregwen, daughter of Thirthurun.”

And Caradhil does not know whether to be relieved or terrified.

For now, suddenly, the Sindar have come back to reality, ceased their recriminations to each other. All three of them now have out their swords, for all the good that will do them against a host of Silvans with bows, Caradhil thinks, though in the way of Sindar only one speaks,

“Your spawn has taken my daughter – if he has touched her – dishonoured her – if he has hurt her –“

The House of Finbonaur exchanges looks.

“It sounds more to me as though she has taken him,”  
“My husband would not touch another,”  
“My brother would not hurt my beloved,”  
“We are not mortals to act so,”  
“Need she your protection or is she adult?”  
“Spawn? What word is that to use of my son?”  
“Where is my brother?”  
“What has happened to him?”  
“What elves are you that you can even think such things?”

Caradhil waits for the clamour to ease, and repeats himself,

“What are you that you can use such words, suspect us – elves – of such things? What are you that you care nothing for your people? What are you that all Silvans seem the same to you, that Galadhrim matter nothing?” and then, “You claim the kingship in his name – but it seems to me, blood or no, you know nothing of what it means to be Thranduilion. The King-that-was deserves better than this done in his name.”

There is silence.

For a long moment, Caradhil is not quite sure what to do next, what to say. His eyes keep returning to Maegsigil’s body, his thoughts stop every time, and he finds – he finds he very much would like to – to just walk away.

Leave the Galadhrim to these – these monsters whom they have invited in. 

Leave his family to sort out the Forest, and the elves, and all the endless responsibility and arguing, and threats from every side.

Leave the Halls.

Perhaps even leave the Forest, take his comb and go – where?

That is the question. There is nowhere to go.

West – there are no elves left this side of the Sea, and Caradhil is not one to be alone.

East – there is Meieriel, who does not want him, she made that clear before. As for further East – I am become old, he thinks, I no longer want to travel for the sake of travelling, seeing new things for the joy of seeing them. 

Across the Sea – there is no peace there.

And so he straightens, and prepares to speak, to take control once more, to restore calm and order, when someone new enters the clearing.

She looks around, and – this is what Caradhil sees – she notices the two dead elves, she walks to them, touches ears in a gesture of respect, and then – she walks to Haldir, to Rumil, and repeats the gesture,

“I grieve with you for your brother,” she says, and something in her tone calls out to him, even as she lowers her voice, speaks words of comfort that only the brothers need hear.

Thirthurun is speaking, but she pays him no attention until she has finished what is most important. Then she turns,

“Father, uncle,” she says by way of greeting, and then, “Royal Family of Eryn Lasgalen, I greet you. I must apologise for the – disorder – in which you find my Wood. There has been – there is to be – a change of – I believe the term is management style. The Galadhrim – and the Silvans of the Wood – have decided – in the long discusssions at evening combing these last nights of delay, the Semphair groups that I know you also use – that they will no longer have two lords. They would have this Wood ruled as it for so long was – one lord and one lady, and,” she looks once more to her father and uncle, “they would have me for the lady, and I,” she smiles slow, and golden, “I would have Tirithel Caradhlasion of the House of the Red Star for my consort-lord.”

She is golden, and Tirithel as he smiles is – not golden, he is no Sindar, but – shining, beautiful, on fire as Silvans in love are on fire with all the passion that is in him. The watching Silvans sigh, content, and bows are lowered – they are elves, elves like tales and deeds worthy of tales.

There are protests, of course, from her uncle, her father, but not, Caradhil notices, from her brother. He is, it seems, resigned, and urges resignation on his elders.

“What is the use? If this rabble would rather – you, we, cannot force them to see their folly. Let us go, and leave them – the time will come when they will regret their choice, when they find themselves reduced to a mere – tributary to the Forest – but that is for them to learn. I myself – I begin to wonder why we stay this side of the Sea. Let Silvans keep Arda and fade, pushed by mortals into the corners of the world. We, I think, would be better now to sail, and find company more suited to our standing.”

Even so, Caradhil is wary. He orders that they be well-guarded, kept secure, and separate.

And knows as he does, that he is become that he most dreads to be – he is the one to remain sober, to remain in command, to see that all is done that must be done. He does not drink, nor dance, nor sing, nor comb.

He is the Elven-King, and he must remain cold and in control, be it in victory or defeat.


	21. Chapter 21

The days draw on, as days do, and the discussions seem endless – and pointless.

Caradhil thought he had come to terms with the love of elves for words, and more words, and yet more words, discussing and playing with ideas, round and round they go, ever approaching agreement, ever shying away. It seems he has not, he is become impatient, it is so tempting – just so tempting – the illusion that to simply shout – no, he does not shout – to simply command, to tell them what to do, and when and how to do it – would be simpler.

As it would, to begin.

But then – then there would be no end to it – and in a season, two seasons time, you would still be here, still telling – and you would never go home again.

No, the Semphair groups, the consensus decisions – that is what elves need, but – oh, the hours of talking, and combing required.

And for all that Haldir is – not so bad as one had remembered – not like ever to be one you could really warm to, relax with, but – one with whom you can talk and comb, and not feel forever giving, no taking, no; with Haldir Caradhil finds he can listen as well as speak. But welcome as it is, for all that – this is not home.

Tirithel and Miregwen will rule, glorious as lord and lady, and if only, if only this change could have happened without the need for deaths. Reluctantly Caradhil admits that those who say – only two deaths – are right, but – they were elves, they had no need to die. However, what is done, is done, and the future must be the thought of any ruler – and the elves of the Wood, all of them, Galadhrim and Silvan brought closer by their grief are full of talk and plans; but Caradhil – Caradhil will not risk leaving any discontent, any space for an uprising. He makes time to speak to every elf, those he has already met, and those he has not – reassure them – yes, this is new, but no, not so very new – only the good of the new ways – see, these Semphair groups, you yourself will be able to advise the lord and lady – all will be well.

No, I will not be staying, I have to return to my Forest – and it is not always clear whether the elves are pleased or sorry.

There is an assumption though that he will be an overlord, there to appeal to should the rule of the new lord and lady become – unpleasing.

He is not quite sure what he thinks of that – it is not something he had expected, wanted, but – well. Perhaps to begin, it will be no bad thing for these two to have an awareness of another power watching their deeds.

The struggle, he knows, will be for him to cease watching, relinquish power.

 

 

 

 

Matters seem to be settled, and the host is preparing to prepare to depart – never can anything be speedy and straightforward with elves – when Tirithel comes to him.

“Ada-of-us-all,” he begins, and then, for they are alone, “Caradhil, you know that ever have I been loved by you and ever have you been as much to me – almost in some ways more – than my Ada; and so I would have my wedding take place before you leave – and Miregwen thinks like me. She also fears – Ada-of-us-all, must you take Haldir from us – he is one of the Galadhrim whom Miregwen thinks most competent and reliable – most open to change and yet not afraid to defend the old ways when they are loved – we would not lose him yet. Is it possible you could perhaps agree that he might stay here a while before journeying to you?”

Caradhil blinks.

He looks hard at Tirithel, but sees no lie, no dissemblance in him.

Carefully he separates the strands of speech.

“Are you not then married already?” he begins, “for you two are clearly promised, none could come between you – you love, you know it, you have made it clear and declared it so. What more could be necessary?”

Tirithel blushes.

“Apart from that,” Caradhil adds – and really, none need discuss _that_. That more-than-combing is a matter for those who are vowed, “none need know or ask of that.”

Tirithel looks at his feet,

“There is a custom in the Wood,” he says, “I suppose like to the customs of mortals – a couple will stand and take vows before others, change their braids – it is a simple thing, ceremonial only, but it means much to these elves, and I see no reason to go against their custom in this. We have waited long, it would have been foolish not to wait a little longer.”

Caradhil blinks again in surprise.

“I have never heard of such a thing being done by Silvans, or even Sindar,” he says, “it sounds more like a – a custom of the accursed, of Noldor, but – if it is what Miregwen wishes – I daresay there is no harm in it. See that you consider your words as carefully as if you were alone however, that it become not a spectacle, but remain a matter of your hearts.”

Tirithel nods, abashed, and Caradhil wonders if the lad had hoped for some – some ostentatious display, such as mortals love. No matter if he did – it would be wrong, unelven. 

UnSilvan, perhaps, he reflects – but still, not something he could condone.

They love, they have each other – need they more?

Tirithel hesitates, and then repeats,

“And Haldir? You – I would not see you unhappy – not for anything, Ada-of-us-all, but – a few seasons?”

Caradhil looks hard at the elf of all his family whom he had thought most like him.

“Haldir – I do not know what you mean. There is nothing between us. Nothing save friendship – not even that, I think – more – the respect of two who have found they can work together for a common aim. He has no desire to live in the Forest, of that you can be sure.”

Tirithel wrinkles his nose, and reaches out, like the impulsive child he was not so long ago, taking Caradhil’s hand he says,

“Oh Ada-of-us-all – would you have me speak to him – assure him it is changed since last he was there – he need have no fear now – it has been so long since he was there and you two together – this cannot be, I would not have you alone longer.”

Then a thought strikes him,

“Is it – that he does not wish to – to ‘move North’? Surely – if you love him – you can wait? But be together? Not this coldness of respect, and working together?”

Almost Caradhil could laugh.

The irony of it.

After so many years of his family seeming to care nothing, now it seems they are all convinced he has been pining for this Haldir all these decades – that the two of them have argued over the proprietry of – of ‘going North’, as it is called. How to convince them that this is not so?

He tries,

“Tirithel, never have I lied to you – believe me now when I say – Haldir is simply someone with whom I have spoken much, someone whom I believe might be of great value to you and your adopted land. That is all. There is nothing more between us. I do not love him – could not – will not – have not – and neither he me. He is vowed to his brothers, for the love of Elbereth, stop that knowing look.”

Tirithel bows, and walks away.

Caradhil sighs, knowing he has not completely convinced.

He will have to be careful – he does not want the Galadhrim to think one of their own was refused the – what would the phrase be – the status of avowed combmate to the King? Is that what they think?

That any could think he would – after all these years – fall in love and turn away – wish to vow and choose not for some – some petty reason – that hurts.

That his family could think this – it cuts something deep inside of him.

Taithel would not have thought so.

Tegylwen would not think this, but of course Tegylwen has long known the truth of his life – the only elf on these shores to know.

Am I so different, so very different in these days, he asks himself, that all these beloved elves of my house – they think I am that cold, capable of such a thing?

What have I become?

 

 

 

 

 

In the days following, Caradhil finds himself avoiding Haldir – a reaction, he realises, which does not give the lie to the speculation. What would though – elves are elves – the only way to convince is to ignore the talk, to keep on with what must be done.

Work.

There is always work, though this is not a situation Droin ever mentioned – doubtless it is a situation that happens among dwarves; from what Caradhil has learnt of them it must happen often. Or perhaps, he wonders idly, perhaps dwarves are so – he has not the word promiscuous – so liberal with their – their habits – that questions are not asked because – who would care?

Although elves – well, some elves, he smiles in satisfaction, in recollection of days past – are liberal with their combs, yet that never stopped speculation.

Still.

There is much work to be done – this ceremony which Tirithel and Merigwen feel necessary gives a sense of urgency which was lacking. Now it is arranged, the Silvans of the Forest will leave the day after – they are all ready to go home – this Wood is not for them. 

 

 

 

 

Caradhil watches, for some reason it is apparently important that he be present, little as he finds he wants to, now it comes to it. He cannot find words for this reluctance, cannot find an acceptable way to say – it is wrong, wrong for others to watch vowing, wrong for something between two to be made public, wrong for – for any of this ridiculous ceremony to be thought important.

Cannot – cannot say – if this is how it should be – and it is not, for Silvans it is not, whatever other elves may do, this is not how it should be for Silvans – but if this were – then does that mean my children are – are somehow worth less than others, that we did not vow for all time, did not love?

Never has he thought this, until now, but something in the trailing end of looks from the Galadhrim has him wondering if that is what they think – that and the words of the Sindar, the ‘uncontrolled breeding of Silvans’. 

Absurd to be thinking like this.

His children – well, Taithel – dear, beloved Taithel, ion-nin – is gone where no-one’s opinion can matter, and Tegylwen – Tegylwen rules Ithilien, and it would be a foolish elf indeed who maligned her.

But – in his heart he knows why he dwells on the possible slight. It hides another, deeper pain.

Words he cannot speak – words that can never be spoken – do not make me watch another’s vowing – do not make me see that which I have never, will never know. Do not remind me of the one time, the one time I threw away reserve, and caution, and said what was in my heart – always in my heart – of the brief moments of gold – the moment I spoke, the moment I saw him shine – the moments of gold in a lifetime of serviceable timber.

None of it can be spoken, and so he watches.

 

 

The two elves step towards each other, away from the crowd of spectators; he takes her hand, and they look at each other a moment. Then they raise their hands, touch ears, slowly, so slowly. Silently they stand there, and the world – the world disappears from their awareness. Hands move, carefully, slowly, to run through hair, to touch the braids that soon will be changed, and they draw closer together. It is not possible to say who is pulling, who is in control – they are both eager, both – need. Their mouths meet and they kiss, as only those who are in love can kiss, eyes locked on each other, eyes closing that the feel may be more, may be everything.

It seems to last forever.

The waiting elves stand, patient as only elves can be patient, unembarrassed as only elves of all thinking creatures can be unembarrassed, knowing this means the marriage will take place, the vows will indeed be spoken, and these two will be the new rulers of Lorien.

Caradhil stares sightlessly at the couple, unlistening as they speak the words of their vows, grateful for the slowness of new love as they comb and change their braids, grateful that he can allow his eyes to focus tightly upon the glimmer of sunlight in the leaves. That he can watch these different leaves move in the faintest of breezes, listen to the music of the trees, faint and fading as it is, and not dwell upon the thought of Silvan hands in Sindar blondness. Somehow in all the politics, in all the negotiations, in all this time, he had let himself stay blind. For all that he had dreaded hearing the vows, he had not thought – had not allowed himself to think – this is the granddaughter of Thranduil. This is the great-grand-son of Caradhil.

It hurts.

When they turn, to show themselves to the crowd, he blinks once, and breathes.

When they approach him, he is ready, he is in control. He does not flinch at the sight of that face, so like to another he once knew, he does not allow a flicker of what he feels to show. 

He inclines his head, the Elven-King acknowledging a new treaty, a new kingdom. 

“Be joyous,” he says, and he even manages the ear-touch without a tremor.

But that night, when all the feasting is over, when all the music is drifting off into quiet, when all the elves are separating, the dancing finished, and all look to their own groups – or new friends – for private combing, Caradhil does not join any group. He does not pick up with any of those who are, only too clearly, available for his comb. He is especially careful not to be seen near Haldir or his brother. He simply has not the energy, not tonight.

Tonight, he would be alone.

And if anyone wonders – they do not ask questions. But indeed, on such a night, when the wine flows so freely, when there are so many elves ready for combing, so free and easy – it is unlikely that anyone even notices.

The journey home seems easy, and the Halls are welcoming – there is work to do, work to lose oneself in, always work.

Doronlas is their usual self, and seems almost as glad to be back as Caradhil. They do not discuss it – they never speak of such personal things – but Caradhil suspects the time among other elves has been tiring. It cannot be easy, he supposes, to be forever explaining the truth of yourself – or else living behind the bars of others’ assumptions.

For many evenings, Caradhil finds he must comb with those who have concerns arisen from the new alliance, or with those who did not journey, but must be reassured that they are no less his elves for all that.

But eventually the time comes when after the evening meal he can slip away alone. He makes his way to the King’s private chambers, and he opens a door to a room where no other elf goes.

Alone, inside, he kneels, as he has knelt so often these long, lonely years, and he lets himself seek comfort in dreams.

Dreams of how the world never was, could never be.


	22. Chapter 22

Of course, before anything else, there is the matter of the Sindar to attend to. The Wood did not want them.

The Forest does not want them.

Caradhil has no doubt that Ithilien will not want them. He has not asked, but he is in no doubt.

So.

They must sail – that indeed seemed to be what the youngest of them was suggesting – so one could almost claim to be doing them a kindness. Sending them after their kin. 

Because doubtless that reunion will be joyous.

Caradhil smiles, mirthlessly.

“Doronlas,” he calls, and his efficient secretary is, as always, at his side, “letters. To Ithilien, a boat will be needed for these Sindar – the usual price – and I suppose we had best inform the Northern Elves that they are here, briefly. It may be that – well, that there is a message or – but I do not think it likely. Draft them and I will approve and sign.”

And in the meantime, I will try and restrain my delight at sending these two – uruks – away from these lands.

I will not visit them in their confinement, I will not gloat, I will not rejoice in the downfall of any.

But he knows he lies.

_“Tôl arad, tôl arad, tôl arad – turas o phân…..”_

 

 

 

 

“They do not acknowledge any of us,” the guard explains, “we take them food, and drink, and all reasonable comforts – but they do not look or speak, do not seem to hear our words. I – I know all the mistakes they have made – yet, they are the sons of the King-who-was, and I would not have their last memories of the Forest that was his be only of stonewalls and silence.”

Caradhil raises an eyebrow,

“It seems to me that it is not your concern – if silence is their choice, who are we to rob them of that choice?”

He makes the gesture to dismiss the petitioner, but the elf does not move.

“My lord King,” he kneels once more, and stretches out his arms, begging, “my lord King, for the sake of – of those who are now sailed – for the sake of the King-that-was – they are his sons – he loved them,” Caradhil turns away, but the voice does not give up, “my lord King have mercy – let them be together – if there is one thing that all know of them – they are devoted brothers – will you not – for the sake of their brother, of your own prince – will you not let them be together?”

Caradhil stands still.

Motionless.

Frozen.

Then he whirls on his heel and strides to the elf, he takes him by the scruff of his neck, pulls him to his feet and shakes him. He shakes him as a fox shakes a rabbit, and hisses into his face,

“For the sake of their brother?”

Caradhil lets go – flings the elf across the floor,

“For the sake of their brother?” he is shouting now, all control lost, furious, “think you that you know anything of their brother, you, born in this age, you who never met him, never saw him – what do you know, fool?”

The elf cowers, but he is brave,

“My lord – I only – should not brothers cleave one to the other?”

In five paces, Caradhil stands over him, hands on hips, one perilously close to the hilt of the sword without which he has found he cannot be easy with those Sindar in his realm, 

“Indeed,” he says, low and fierce, “as you say, brothers should cleave one to another. What say you then of two brothers who would not comb the youngest, tiny and needful, deserted as he was? What say you then of two brothers who would leave another to cry, would take his toy and burn it, would see him run into the Forest – the Forest as it was, dark and dangerous – and neither follow nor alert any to do so? What say you of two brothers who poured scorn on every attempt of the youngest to be anything of value? What say you of two brothers who never let him near them or their families? What say you of two brothers who could not – not in so many years – not once – ever make any gesture of reconciliation? Above all, what say you of two brothers who would hurt an elfling, their own blood, when he came to them desperate for one – just one – one chance to comb and feel affection?” he shakes his head, his eyes still on the elf crouching in terror on the floor, “no, Lalornion, do not speak of my prince. Everything that I am tells me to hurt these Sindar – for love of him, for the sake of him, I would see them both _earless and shaven-headed_ before they leave here.”

There is silence.

He hears his words, and remembers a time when he never thought he could say such things.

“That I do not – that they will remain safe – that is for my prince’s honour. Do not ask more of me.”

He swings about, walks away, and grips the throne for steadiness.

“You have my leave to depart,” he grinds out, and makes a gesture, “all of you, leave me, and do not admit any. I would be alone.”

He hears the doors of the room close, an echoing in the emptiness, and stands, clinging, for a long time.

Slowly, the rage leaves him, and exhausted, he sinks to the floor, kneeling at the foot of the throne, still clutching at it.

He takes off the crown, and examines it.

Flings it from him.

Covers his face with his hands, and leans against the throne.

What am I become, dear Elbereth, what am I become?

_“Tôl arad, tôl arad, tôl arad – turas o phân_   
_Lû tôl,_   
_Tôl arad, tôl arad, tôl arad - turas o phân….”_

 

 

 

He does not know how long he stays like that, only that when he rises all is still and quiet – they have done as he said – left him alone. From the feel of the air, he knows it must be past sunset – another day over – another night begun – and tomorrow is another, and then another, and on, and on.

He sighs, and gathers his thoughts. There is no time for this – he has wasted much, too much, of the day in such meanderings. There is work to do – surely – there is always work to do.

Caradhil walks to the door of the throne room, meaning to have the guards send for Doronlas to go to his study – meaning to begin on – on whatever there is to do, but when he opens it, outside there are not just the guards, but Caradhlas also. He is there, quite patiently, crouched on his haunches, leaning against the wall idly talking and dicing among them.

“Daerada,” he says, looking up, delightedly it seems, “may I speak with you now?”

Caradhil looks from his grandson to the guards and back again,

“You have been kept waiting?” he asks, “you – son of my son – you were denied admittance?” and hears the anger in his voice.

Caradhlas shrugs,

“Your elves were unsure – and hearing of your wrath I agreed it was best we waited upon your pleasure – there is no question of denial, merely – an agreement.”

Caradhil nods slowly, and then looks at the guards,

“I know you,” he says, “and I would have you know me – there is in this world nothing – not one thing – not matters of state, not policy, not my own anger – not one thing for which you are ever – ever – to keep my family from me,” he sighs, and the anger leaves him, “but I myself spoke ill before. See that all know this. Now – now I go to my study, with this my grandson – is there aught else of which I should know?”

The guards give him to understand that they are sorry, they did not know, they were only trying to do as he wished, they – they would not offend their King – and no, there are no other matters.

 

 

 

Once alone, Caradhlas turns to him, reaches out to him,

“Daerada, what happened? Earlier? I – I know you do not like those Sindar – I know something of why, Ada spoke of it all – but had I not happened to be passing we would now be discussing why the brothers are dead.”

And Caradhil is cold with horror.

The younger elf sees, and carries on,

“They heard your anger, your hatred – they, and I will not tell you who, they wanted to please you – only to please you – for that, for love of you, of their King, they would have killed in cold blood two elves who never did them harm. Oh, they threaten, and they bluster, and they have all my life been rumoured to hate us, want us gone, but – never have they actually harmed any,” he raises a hand as Caradhil opens his mouth to ask what of my prince, “yes, they were not very nice to Legolas. But – Daerada – they were hurt too. They were not so very old – not much older than my Tinuwen’s children – think how they would be if she were to leave, if her husband suddenly became a cold uncaring father? These brothers – you have blamed them for everything – for so long – but think. They were left behind when all their family marched to war – their brother did not come back, and perhaps they blamed themselves that they were not there. Their grandfather died, their uncles, all. Their parents – we do not know – not really – what they were like after – but they were so busy with the kingdom – and then the baby – and then she – she was like to fade. And she left. She left without saying goodbye – did you know that? – I spoke to Arasfaron once, and he said it was the one thing he would ever – ever – criticise Thranduil for,” Caradhil winces at the name, and knows he is seen, but the words continue, “no, I will say the name, it was not the King that made that decision, it was the husband and father – and he made the wrong one. To keep the baby and send her away – it was wrong. All the more wrong when he would not look at or touch the little one – that made it easier for the brothers to act as they did. Think, Daerada – do you not see?”

He pauses for breath, and Caradhil shakes his head slowly, no, he does not see – will not see.

“Daerada, they were young and hurting. They had no good example, no brother, no parent to tell them they were wrong – no other elf spoke up. I do not know – none of us can know – why their wives did not, why they did not think themselves – but they did not. They made a mistake. A bad mistake, and one that went on too long, yes. But it was a mistake – one mistake – in a life of being,” he sighs, “not perfect, perhaps not even very good, but – no worse than many. Tirithel’s Merigwen spoke of them as loving fathers, and her brother is devoted to them. I – I have talked with him – he is horrified by what happened, he says it must have been a madness come upon them. He loves his father, his uncle, he speaks only good of them. Armyr has no knowledge of the reason for his cousin’s banishment – he thinks only that Cundlas, as he still calls him, preferred to live wild, to be among Silvans. In all honesty, I think he believes it is sorrow and undeserved guilt for the death of his mother and sister that has kept him away all these years. As for himself, he does not truly wish to Sail, you know. No more than he wished to come back here. He – he has not thought before that he has a choice. Has not considered himself an adult – because he is not married, not vowed,” Caradhlas shrugs, “that may be a Sindar thing, I do not know. Anyway. He will go – willingly – because he does not wish to leave them – or his mother. And she is a poor thing. I do not know what has happened there – I think – did you know that the other who died, the wife of Thorodwar – was her sister? She has never been right since. She should have sailed long ago – but they could not bear her to go alone – not after their mother – and they would not leave without their father.”

At this, Caradhil looks up, astonished, and Caradhlas meets his eyes,

“Yes. I thought that might come as a shock. They would not leave without their father – they thought as the years passed and the Forest emptied that he would go – and then they also would leave. Only when he went – he sent no word. He did not think of them. Left them – he left them. He left without saying goodbye.”

Caradhil’s face is as stone. He will not apologise for that.

He will not learn to ache for these two.

He will not.

Caradhlas, who, after all, has known him his whole life, sighs again.

“Daerada, before all this – I was coming to you because – I am uneasy. Uneasy in my mind that you should force any to Sail,” he stops, looks down and runs hand through hair, then raises his eyes once more, “kinslayers most of all.”

Caradhil shrugs, cold as any King learns to be,

“Are they then kinslayers? I had assumed not – they killed no Sindar – what kin are Silvan or Galadhrim to them?” but he cannot escape the eyes that once were those of an adoring toddler boring into him.

“All elves are elves,” Caradhlas speaks quietly, but his words are no less powerful for that, “and if they Sail with blood on their hands, what then? Their ship will surely founder – all on board will perish – better to kill them here, let the innocent Sail without them.”

“So – you would have me become as them for the sake of those you call innocent? Those who stood by, who allowed them to grow into what they now are?” and the hurt, the anger runs deep.

Caradhlas shrugs,

“I had not understood you to have any thought of Sailing.”

Now Caradhil finds he must look away, must summon all the cold and calm at his disposal not to weep – for no, he has no thought of Sailing. What could one such as he Sail towards? What lies in the West for him? 

A grave of a beloved prince – and nothing more.

He does not say it.

Instead he uses the calm and coldness to reason with this beloved grandchild.

“If they cannot reach Valinor – they will simply find themselves on one of the Isles between, the Outer Isles. I will not have them slain, I will not do that – they are the sons of my King – but neither will I keep them here, nor send them elsewhere in my lands, nor inflict their poison on any land this side of the Sea. Let them Sail – let the Valar decide whether to give them their own kingdom at last, however small, or return them to their parents – and I wish them joy.”

Caradhlas tries at least for some mitigation, though he hears the bitterness, suspects his words to be useless, that the decision is made,

“They made a mistake. I think they have paid now. Let them be together until they sail. And – if Cunelas son of Thorodwar should come – let him speak with them,” he stops, and waits, and after a long moment Caradhil nods agreement.

“Let it be as you suggest. And Caradhlas, I cannot forgive them, cannot see it as you do, but – I have not ordered them maimed, nor did I want them dead,” he says, though his face is turned away, that Caradhlas not see the lie in his eyes. I did not want my elves to kill them, would be more honest, but more shaming.

He waits, waits for Caradhlas to speak again, to offer some – forgiveness, understanding, affection – but there is only a quiet,

“As you will, _my lord King,_ ” and the closing of the door.

The night seems long, and his song is bleak.

_“Tôl arad, tôl arad, tôl arad – turas o phân_   
_Lû tôl,_   
_Tôl arad, tôl arad, tôl arad - turas o phân….”_

 

 

 

The days pass in work – Doronlas does not ask difficult, awkward questions, and Caradhil is once more grateful for such silence – and if at each evening meal there is none from his family to share the King’s table – what matters it? There are plenty of other elves who are glad to be so favoured.

There is no lack of willing elves to comb.

There is wine, and song, and combing, and the comfort of hands, of knowing that he has only to raise an eyebrow and the elf he chooses will come running.

_“Tôl arad, tôl arad, tôl arad – turas o phân…..”_

The group he spends time with – or, these days, the elf – for suddenly he finds that combing with only one is – more comforting – that group, that elf – will think as he wills them to, will be persuaded by his words to whatever he wishes.

If Caradhlas and Talathion and Tinuwen have all chosen this time to spend a season away from the Halls – what of it?

Do they expect him to go to them, to – to humble himself?

And for what? For these two Sindar?

If his family did not require anything – no apology, nothing – from him after he sent them into danger – and he regrets that, though he still cannot see what choice he had – then why now?

No matter.

Another evening is come, and Caradhil lays down his pen, stretches his cramping hand,

“Doronlas,” he calls to the antechamber, “will you sit at my right tonight? Save me from the hopes of – I have forgotten his name – that archer whose eyes trail me – nice lad, but – he is too hopeful, I think. I have combed with him more than once – if I do not wish for more, who is he to hint at it?”

His secretary smiles, but it is not the pleased and flattered smile he hoped to see – somehow Doronlas looks – sad.

“No, I think I have sat with you once too often – I will not do so tonight,” and when he looks a question, flushes and looks away, and Caradhil – Caradhil wonders, for the first time, how far down the blush goes, and – and how would that so-tidy, so-untouched hair feel? 

Catches himself thinking that, and cannot meet Doronlas’ eyes as they continue,

“I do not like the comments I have heard, my lord King – I am not – you know I have no thought of – such matters are not for me,” and Doronlas leaves the room, clearly ill at ease.

Caradhil bites his lip.

What am I come to – am I no better than a mortal – a Noldor – to be inviting such speculation on one who neither desires nor deserves it?

It is another long evening.

Somehow – for not quite the first time in all his years – somehow he has not the heart for combing. 

It is as well there is still wine and song.

_“Tôl arad, tôl arad, tôl arad – turas o phân…..”_

 

 

 

 

Brethilwen brings him the accounts – as she does, it is her task – has been her task for so long, that in all honesty, Caradhil is not quite sure what the point of it is. He is not going to find fault with her – she knows the system, the payments, the duties, all of it better than he.

As ever he glances over the papers, signs them, returns them.

She looks down, and then,

“My lord King,” and he does not even now notice the form of address, “the butler asked me to speak to you – the wine stocks run lower than usual – would you permit he order more – or will the court perhaps – drink less?”

Caradhil’s mind has moved on, he makes a gesture absently,

“Order more. I will not tell my elves to drink less – we are Silvans, we drink as we wish,” he half-raises his head, sees her still standing there, “you have asked, I have spoken. You have my leave to depart.”

Brethilwen nods, bows, and goes. She does not catch the eye of Doronlas, who must understand but – what can be done?

Caradhil stares at the letter in front of him, blind to everything but this.

“They are not coming,” he says, and Doronlas is instantly at his side, “the elves in the North – I thought – even after everything – I thought the Sindar, Cunelas, I thought he would come. Thorodwar is his father – I thought that would count for something. I would never have prevented their meeting – I said this – but he will not come.”

How can I convince them that I did ask – how convince them I am not exiling them without the chance to make this right?

Doronlas, quick as ever, hears the unspoken question.

“I will have the guards take this letter to them – read it to them – let them see the signature. They will surely not be surprised – it is long since they cast him off – they may even think him dead.”

Caradhil shudders,

“He is his son. How is it possible – what is wrong with these Sindar that they can act so?”

But for that Doronlas has no answer.

Alone again, Caradhil stares into the fire.

Tries not to think how many nights he has sat alone among his elves, how long since any of his family were here.

Reaches for the glass of wine to take away the fear that builds in him.

_“Tôl arad, tôl arad, tôl arad – turas o phân_   
_Lû tôl,_   
_Tôl arad, tôl arad, tôl arad - turas o phân….”_


	23. Chapter 23

“My lord King,” Doronlas sounds pleased, “the message has come from Ithilien – the ship for the Sindar must be nearly complete – will you read the letter from your daughter?”

Caradhil smiles, and for a moment all the cares, all the fears, all the ache falls away, and he thinks only of his daughter, his Tegylwen, his most beloved – all that now remains of those years of happiness.

_…….Ada, I must apologise that it has taken so many weeks for this letter to be written. It is a long while now since any elf Sailed, and our skill at ship-building has declined with little use, but I think if you were to send those Sindar to us now, then by the time they arrive this ship, which we have named Lenn-Annun, will be finally ready to take them hence. As ever, we are ready to welcome any of your elves who would come to us, and those who bear this to you wish to stay in the Forest for some time. They are become tired of the sunlight, they say….._

Caradhil smiles.

_……but Ada, you must know that I have had word from my nephew. And I am concerned. For you, Ada, we are concerned for you. He writes that you do not listen to any, you drink more heavily than he has before known, and he does not say anything else, but I wonder what is wrong? I suppose it is these Sindar, and I hope you will become yourself once more when they are gone. Forgive me, and forgive Caradhlas if we speak out of turn, and be assured we have not spoken to any other, not even those to whom we are vowed. But you ARE NOT ALONE, and we will not let you be._

_The birds here flourish, I think they have benefited most from all the trees Naneth planted. You would delight in the woods here now. There are now no oliphants to trample seedlings, and though I know Taithel would grieve for the lack, I myself am not sorry………._

The abrupt change of subject is deliberate, he knows; Tegylwen is a skilled writer and never makes a mistake in tone without considering the effect – in that she is her mother’s daughter.

Caradhil bites his lip and wonders if she is right, if Caradhlas is right – and what he should do. He reads the letter, and considers it, absently drinking as he does.

Elves being elves, news travels fast.

The Sindar will leave.

And it seems there is a need for them to be seen depart, for it to be – almost ceremonial.

Caradhil pulls himself together.

This – this must be done for the sake of his prince.

Afterwards – afterwards it will be time to consider.

 

 

 

 

“Go west, and may you find joy there,” the words are traditional, kind, yet he knows they burn the ears of those he speaks to, “I send with you those who wish to go of your family, yet I allow all those who will to stay. I bear you no malice, my people bear you no malice, and we would wish you well in those lands across the Sea.”

He pauses, to see if they wish to answer.

It seems not.

“I send with you also, the jewels of your mother, that you may return them to her – and if there is question why it has taken so long, then I would have you answer that until now there was none Sailing to whom it seemed right to entrust such precious items – such personal gifts as these.”

He waits again, but there is nothing.

“Reassure the King your father, that his people are well, they want for nothing, our land is at peace – there is no shadow, no evil here, no encroachment of Men. His elves are well.”

They look at him in silence, their faces showing all their Sindar pride and scorn of him, a mere Silvan. 

Then one speaks,

“Yet for all your pretty words – you think to keep his sword?”

“His crown?”

Caradhil looks at them. Slowly he touches both sword and crown, remembers putting them on for the first time, remembers other Sindar who have sailed West.

“They were given to me,” he says, slowly, quietly, “you were not trusted with them, any more than you were trusted with his elves or his Forest.”

They look at him, their brows raised in twin disdain.

For a long moment they all wait.

Caradhil gestures to the boxes of jewels that are already being loaded onto the boat,

“The jewelled crowns – the most beautiful crowns – are in there. I know not what you think they will be needed for there – but I would not keep one single thing that is not mine by right.” The crown he wears is the only one he has ever worn, the plainest, the crown of work, of duty, not the ones for impressing people, not the beautiful ones, not the matching pairs. He makes another gesture, and a waiting elf comes forward, “As for his sword – that I also keep. It is here. It is the sword of this Forest, of Eryn Lasgalen. The sword of Ithilien – that sword – that sword I would no more put in your hands, deliver into your keeping than I would have left him who once owned it in your care.” For a moment he allows himself to feel, and to show, a flash of anger, “For if I did, you would doubtless cast it into the Sea, in your endless hatred of that elfling, my sweet prince. Now sail, sail West, and may there be joy at your reunion with your parents.”

And he watches once more, as Sindar ride beyond his sight, this time escorted by his elves, this time not in triumph, in joy, not on the start of a glorious quest – this time, they go almost as prisoners.

But there is still a moment when their hair flashes in the sun, when their faces can no longer be seen, when his heart aches, and – and he would give all that he has to go after, to follow.

It cannot be.

There is no place for him there, and so he turns away.

Too early in the day to seek comfort in wine or in solitude, in dreams, he returns to his study, his desk, his work, and it is little time before there is an elf in front of him.

“Hanben,” he says, and looks at the papers in front of him, “I did not – is there something new – another thought to discuss, another project?”

“No, Caradhil,” and for a moment the easy address comes as a surprise, but the inventor has earned it – and then Caradhil remembers that once he told him not to stand on ceremony, that one Silvan is as good as another, and he wonders when he changed, and how long it is since he did, “no, I have thought of many things for you, for the kingdom, the elves, and now – now I am come to ask that I, like others, may withdraw my savings, may – journey North.”

Caradhil stares.

Somehow, one had not thought of Hanben being – well. Like that. One had not really thought of Hanben being – interested in such matters. 

Oh.

Well. He is not Doronlas. Caradhil supposes most elves do fall in love sooner or later. But that he had not known – he must be losing touch.

He raises his eyebrows,

“You wish to go North – and who is the lucky ellon? You need not, you know. There is no compulsion to live there – not now – times change, even among elves,” he pauses, then, “I – I would not have you go, Hanben. You are too useful.”

And I would miss you.

But Hanben shakes his head slowly,

“My King is kind to say so – but I will go. I find – there is no ellon – I doubt there will be – I gave my heart long ago to one who did not notice – but I find I would prefer to live,” he stops, then carries on slowly, “to live among those who have the freedom I lacked in the days when it would have been valuable. There are many there now who are not vowed, it will not be odd. And – well,” he looks at Caradhil, a straight look in the eyes, “perhaps elves change. Perhaps there is not only one for each of us as we were told – so many things we learnt then were wrong, maybe this also,” he shrugs, “but it matters not. I wish to go – and my King will not stop me.”

The arrogance of it, the effrontery is what hits Caradhil. He does not let himself stop to consider how much he is unbalanced by the thought that an elf could love again, that perhaps, perhaps – perhaps things could have been different.

He stands, his hands flat on the desk as he leans forward, as Hanben steps away,

“I am your King,” he says, low and fierce, “and if I do not give you permission, you will not depart. And make no mistake, inventor, I do not give you permission. Not now, and not ever. You are too valuable to me. I will not lose you and your ideas.”

But Hanben does not retreat further, does not apologise, he breathes and then stands upright,

“No,” he says.

Caradhil stares.

“No,” Hanben repeats, and shakes his head, “no, Caradhil. You are my King, you are a great King, but – you it was that told me – told me with as much anger in your voice as I hear now – that I should know what it was that I would have different, I should know what I can do better than my King, I should be able to express what displeased me, that I knew myself and my value better than any other. I heard you then, and I – I believe it still. I believe in what you built here – what you built in Ithilien – I will not stay here and watch you tear it down, watch you drink and comb without reason, watch your family shrink from you. I know what I would have different – and if it cannot be, then I will go North. My ideas will still benefit the kingdom, I am not one to change allegiance.”

There is silence.

For an instant Caradhil thinks he will shout for the guard – take this elf to a cell until he reconsiders – but then he closes his eyes.

He sits, blindly, understanding the path he has been treading.

When he looks again, Hanben has gone.

He calls for Brethilwen, and when she stands before him,

“Speak to the butler. There is to be less wine. At feasts, at table, and – and here. I will have water save when it is a celebration. And Brethilwen – Hanben will be leaving for the North – see that his account shows a – a,” he gestures vaguely, even now his reckoning is not the sharpest, “a bonus – a – oh, half as much again, perhaps – generous – for all his years of service,” and above all, for what he has done today that none of you dared, Caradhil thinks. Cowards. He recovers himself and smiles, “after all, who knows what expenses he may encounter there. Jewels, paints, clothes – gifts – perhaps he will be setting up his own home at last.”

This done, he stands, and goes out into the Forest.

It is not far – has not been far all this time – to the glade where his family is, where they have always been.

For a long moment, he looks at them, lying in the leaves, laughing, singing, talking – talking as elves talk – and he feels a hunger deep inside, and shame, shame that he has not come before.

Then he walks into the circle, and waits for them to look at him.

“I am sorry,” he says, looking most of all at Caradhlas, “you were right, and I was wrong. I – I lost my way in anger. Forgive me.”

And if this, this surrounding of family, this blanketing and holding, and ear-touching, and combing – if this is not that golden true love that one grows up dreaming of – or in some cases, he reminds himself, grows up pouring scorn on – well. It is good, and worth much.

Hours pass, and by the end of it, Caradhil feels – himself once more. Tinuwen’s youngest is showing signs of being as frighteningly intelligent as his Tegylwen once was, and as scornful of tales of love, of precepts of how elves are, must be, were made and will always be as he remembers himself. 

“Mortals love over and over,” Caradhil is told, at the end of a particularly sorrowful ballard, “so it says in the stories, and elves do everything better than them – so I do not see why we cannot. One tragic love does not mean an eternity alone – that tale is silly.”

He laughs, and agrees that may be true. Indeed, penneth-nin, indeed, elves do everything better than mortals, that is not in doubt.

Perhaps elves can fall in love again, even Silvans.

Perhaps Hanben will, Caradhil thinks, as he makes time that evening to go through the door, if elves can love again, perhaps he will.

But it is too late for me.

_“Cuil nin nath uilasbelin_   
_An ech usi……”_


	24. Chapter 24

Months, seasons pass, as seasons do.

Ithilien continues to grow, to become – so the elves of the Forest say – wilder, and yet at the same time more concerned with the ways and doings of mortals.

Lorien becomes once more somewhere with which they – the elves of the Forest – trade, exchange visits, have shared concerns and interests.

Eryn Lasgalen – the Forest – no longer feels deserted, fading. The North is almost a separate colony, a world of its own, its own ways, traditions, words and customs. 

It is not long since Hanben left the Halls to go there, not in the count of elves – and Caradhil is surprised to find how much he misses the inventor, how often he was in the habit of looking up and seeing him, yet another new idea in hand, come to discuss it – how often he himself would wander that way, to the workshop where Hanben would be – fiddling about with something. Something that Caradhil would never really understand, he has not that mind, but – to watch those capable fingers at work, to listen to an explanation, to play with ideas of how it might be used – to be able to ask questions, admit ignorance – now it is gone, Caradhil realises how much he valued that. But Hanben wanted to go – insisted on it – could not be persuaded. Another fool, chasing after the dream of love, Caradhil tells himself, another elf who for all his brains, his sense, his innovation – believes in the old lies, the old dream.

Be that as it may, not long after, Caradhil looks up from his papers to find,

“Canadion,” he smiles, and then remembers also, “and your Thiriston. And, I gather, a small group of you. Travelling – to Ithilien, I believe?”

That answering smile. 

“Indeed, my lord King, your information is as reliable as ever,” and he approaches, they touch ears – and Caradhil is aware of a tension in the corner of his eye, and – he is honest with himself – he enjoys the moment all the more for that, that and the straying lock of hair he finds he cannot help but replace. That and the flutter of eyelashes, the slight tilt of neck in response.

Thiriston does not growl.

Caradhil reminds himself elves do not growl.

If he seems to – it is surely imagination.

But Canadion steps back, and lowers his eyelids for a moment, before looking up once more,

“We plan to Sail – we have both long thought of it, but never – well, never did it seem something we could dare, the words of the Valar being what we had been told. Besides, when once you had, in your wisdom, sent the two – what shall I call them – they who were once princes – our sweet Sindar could not bear the thought of Sailing, and none of us who were with him from the start could ever have left him,” he pauses, and breathes slow even as Thiriston reaches out and takes his hand. 

Caradhil looks from one to the other,

“Your Sindar – but – something has changed?”

Canadion sighs, and looks back up, meets his eye,

“Something changed indeed. Elves – even to elves – misfortune happens. Ironic, really, after so long, so many battles, so many more dangerous times. His beloved – the spiders – they are not large now, even in our wilderland,” he smiles, tries to smile, “but – even the smaller ones have venom. Ruinfindil had been bitten before, but so long ago, I would have thought it safe, clear from his system now. Funny. No, it is, really, quite funny how we think ourselves so safe from so many things – yet – perhaps because we are – the one thing we are not – we do not take precautions against. Not enough. He was bitten – a small bite – nothing – except it was one too many. And then,” he shrugs, blinks, and Caradhil sees that behind the chatter is a real distress, “then you know what Sindar are. They do not easily survive a loss like that. And Cunelas chose not. It was over in – hours. They are determined, when once they decide on a course.”

Caradhil searches for words. The only ones that come to mind are that you had your prince so very much longer than I mine; you were able to lay him to rest yourself; one day, one day you will see him again, in the Halls of Mandos or beyond the Seas; in the meantime you know, you know beyond all doubt, that he is with his beloved; you do not lie looking at the stars and in your heart fear that you should have followed him, lest he be alone, lest he be afraid and alone; you have certainty and peace – and none of that seems the right thing to say.

He is silent.

You have your beloved, as you call him, at your side, day and night, unto the ending of the world.

He does not say that, either.

After a long moment, Canadion runs a hand through his hair, though he must know it is perfect, and beautiful even were it not perfect, and goes on,

“Then of course Hanben – you would not think Hanben such a gossip, but he is, believe me, when once he has the chance,”

“And the wine,” Thiriston puts in, and Caradhil laughs,

“And the wine,” Canadion accepts the correction, “he is quite chatty. I think the North suits him. Anyway. He was telling us the tale he had heard from – I think it was Haldir – some Galadhrim who was no better than he ought to be, who had heard it from another Galadhrim who went to Imladris but then – decided not to Sail – came back to the Wood – and he was sure it was true,”

Caradhil had forgotten the tendency to lose sight of the salient point that is so characteristic of Canadion when in full flow. Again he meets Thiriston’s eyes, and this time they both grin,

“Important part of it all being,” Thiriston takes pity on him, “apparently Glorfindel Balrog-slayer and some librarian – male librarian – had been wearing braids like ours since the beginning of the Age, and – far as one can tell – shagging like bunnies. But they still Sailed. So,” he shrugs, “nothing stopping anyone, seems.”

Caradhil wonders what rabbits have to do with any of it. More like dwarves, he thinks, and blinks away the thought.

His blink is misread.

“Oh, I know, I know,” Canadion waves his hands, “you are going to say, but Glorfindel is a special case – well, perhaps – but his librarian isn’t. And – well, I think the Valar have had long enough to send us a lightning strike – or an orc – if they wanted to.”

“Or a few spider stings,” Thiriston puts in, not altogether helpfully,

“So you are Sailing,” concludes Caradhil, “all of you that are come. Well, Ithilien will have ships ready soon enough, I daresay. I wish you a fair journey, and a joyous landfall. You will stay here for a time?”

They look at each other, reading thoughts without words, and Caradhil hopes they will not stay for long.

Again it is Canadion who answers,

“No, we only stopped to deliver the news, ask you to send someone – they hope for one of your family – a group – more elves would be welcome – and to – to ask – you are not so young – would you – will you, yourself, my lord King, will you not Sail with us?”

Caradhil blinks.

“I daresay someone can be found,” he does not say it, but yes, there is one of Talathion’s sons who seems to be very close to vowing with an ellon. Of course, it is the third such ellon in a decade, Eriadanor having more in common with Caradhil than either would like to admit, so – whether any vows will be said this time, only the Valar know – but he could definitely be encouraged to go North. As for the other, he wrinkles his nose, “Sail with you? I – thank you for the offer – but – I have never desired to Sail.”

Canadion opens his mouth, but – and Caradhil will laugh about this to himself afterwards – Thiriston is too quick for him. An arm around his waist, an affectionate squeeze, and clearly there is no breath left for speech,

“As you say, my lord King, but – should you ever – we’ll have kept a space for you at the fire,” he pauses, then, “space for more than one, I should say.”

Caradhil ignores this.

There are enough other practicalities to be dealt with to keep the conversation flowing – that and Canadion’s stories – until it is time for them to depart.

Then it is time to send for Eriadanor son of Talathion, and in private, discuss the opportunity to go North, and whether he will take his – friend.

“Oh, Ada-of-us-all, of course he will come with me. And not just him. I think I can probably find myself a sizeable honour-guard,” Caradhil does not flinch at the thought, does not even allow himself to blink, “no need for vows, though. All this one true love is a bit – old-fashioned, don’t you think? No need to be hurrying into it. After all – I have not met all the ellyn in the Forest yet.”

And he grins.

Caradhil, left alone, shakes his head. 

History, he reminds himself, does not repeat. It merely rhymes.

 

 

 

 

So, the North flourishes, and the Forest, for all that many of the older elves are leaving, is by no means quiet and deserted.

The South – that which was once lost – becomes a mixing place for Galadhrim and Silvans – like to Lorien, and yet not. 

Talathion and the rest of his family move south. 

“Not,” Talathion tries to reassure, “not, Ada, Ada-of-us-all, muinthel, because I would be away from you – but – perhaps – a little space is not a bad thing. And when you journey to visit Tirithel – you will stay with us – and he will do likewise when he comes back here,” which he will not, Caradhil thinks, why would he? He is in love, he has all he wants or can believe matters in the world, but Talathion continues, “besides – you would not want any not of your descent rising to power there, would you?”

Caradhil would like to deny that this matters to him.

He cannot.

He will not lie – not to himself nor to his family. Not any more, not ever again.

As it is, he knows himself a very lucky elf.

He has power – more power than he ever wanted – he has a large family – all but one still living – all those living still connected to him, tied to him by loyalty, love and common-interest.

And with every decade that passes, it seems, the family grows.

 

 

For this he has been persuaded to travel.

None can journey far with a young baby – at least, none should be asked to do so.

He was reluctant – not because of the journey – not because he did not wish to leave his Forest, his elves – but because of what awaited.

He was right.

For some reason – he does not know why – there may have been explanations, but he has not heard them – his great-grand-son is not holding the child. Well, he thinks, why should he be? 

Except – it is through him that this elfling carries my blood. So it might seem – obvious – that he would show him to me. But he does not. His wife does. His wife who, in the eyes of Caradhil, wears the face and mannerisms of another.

It is necessary, Caradhil finds, to retreat into the mantle of the Elven-King, as this tall, beautiful, so beautiful, Sindar walks to him, the tiny elfling in her arms. She holds him out,

“See, Ada-of-us-all,” and Caradhil has never hated the title more than at this moment, “here is Calenlass.”

For a moment Caradhil loses control. The eyes, the great wide blue eyes looking up at him, the cloud of pale blond hair, and then – the name. He twitches his nose, and the words come out hard and cold,

“ _What_ did you call him?”

“Calenlass – the leaves here – no longer golden – more and more they become green as our Silvans plant more of their own trees – it seemed – fitting. A fresh new name for a new beginning, a new family, a new – a new kingdom of elves. I know it is not new, but somehow – with all the changes, now at last the Silvans and the Galadhrim begin to think of themselves only as the elves of the Wood, not as two different races. We even begin to have mixed combmates, mixed groups, mixed marriages. The name seemed – right.” 

Merigwen does not understand, she is puzzled, and Tirithel also looks confused – he knows by the set of Caradhil’s face that there is something wrong, but does not know why, 

“Is – is it a name that we should not use? I – we could find no record of it before. I – please – Ada-of-us-all – what is wrong?”

Caradhil is back in control now.

“It is very fitting. It simply – reminded me of her – of your uncle. I suppose you do not remember him,” he says, continuing to look at the elfling, wanting so badly to hold him, but waiting to see if he is offered. 

“My uncle?” there is a moment when Merigwen is even more confused, and Caradhil aches that she does not even recognise who he means. 

It is Tirithel who realises,

“Oh, Legolas. The Elf Who Died. I had forgotten he is not just a tale to you,” he turns to his wife, “your father’s youngest brother. Did you never know him?”

Merigwen shakes her head slowly, searching through the years,

“I think once – when I was young – he would have been tiny – there was a delegation from Lorien – we were presented. I do not remember much – I was not of an age to be interested in little elflings, and they brought us toy spiders,” her face lights even now at the memory, “they were ever so clever – dwarf made I suppose – they ran about alone – but you are not interested. No, I had not thought. That was the only time I really saw him – we moved north after that, we elflings and our mothers. I think he did not have a spider – he was too young – and I thought it was a shame.”

“He had an oliphaunt,” Caradhil says softly, “a fluffy oliphaunt. And he loved it for years. Your father – and your other uncle – they tried to burn it. It was rescued. He ran away – and I found him, my poor sweet prince.” He shakes himself, “it matters not these days. He is dead, and they are sailed. So now – now we have Calenlass.”

He sees he is not to be trusted to hold the elfling – well, he thinks, I would not have let anyone else hold my elflings, who am I to judge – and so he reaches a finger out, touches the tiny ears, lets him grasp it for a moment, and smiles, as best he can.

Then he looks at the two of them, Silvan and Sindar, holding their elfling. He looks at this Sindar with her son in her arms, and he speaks again,

“Love him well, and all the others that come. All of them.”

And he walks away.

This is not his elfling. Never again.

It is a long journey home.

A long while before he can retreat into the peace of that one room, kneel down, and find comfort in dreams.

Dreams of what once was, dreams of how the world could never be.

_“Cuil nin nath uilasbelin_   
_An ech usi……”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Calenlass is, of course, another Sindarin word meaning Greenleaf (but you knew that).


	25. Chapter 25

_“I anor ler pelol benidhrinth thintha brûn_  
_Adh eraid vyrn a tol…..”_

Seasons pass, years pass, the world turns.

Outside the Forest the lives of mortals change.

History becomes legend, legend becomes myth.

None beyond the borders remember the King-who-was.

Caradhil – the House of the Red Star – the Union of Silvan Semphair Royalties – are all that these new Men – and Dwarves, even Dwarves forget eventually – all that they know of elves.

It seems to them that elves have always been thus, the colours of autumn leaves echoed in their hair, their clothes an eclectic mix of fur, leather, silk – anything that seems good to them – or, sometimes, nothing. Their skin painted, their hair too, their bodies bedecked with jewels. Their song wild, and strange, haunting yet tantalising, calling, inspiring, asking – demanding.

They take what they will, and they give what they chose in return – and if the bargain is not made – they can wait. Sooner or later, a mortal will be along who accepts their terms – they can always wait – they are elves.

 

 

 

There are times when it grieves Caradhil that so much is forgotten – not by the mortals beyond his borders, but by the elves within them.

More and more the older elves have sailed – and there were not so very many left even when he first came to power – more and more he rules a land of elves younger than his children, younger than his grandchildren.

The title Ada-of-us-all becomes used by all – and he welcomes it.

What matter if he no longer finds any wish to comb alone with him – if he is welcome in any group, but never a danger, never a temptation – that part of his life is over. Of course it hurts – hurts somewhere so deep inside that he tries to hide it even from himself – but there is no changing some things. He is King – he is the Elven-King of Eryn Lasgalen – he has no right to expect more. 

Love, he reminds himself, love is not for him.

_“Tirin i filig reniar hâr athar uilasbelin foen_  
_A vin ab vin ti ‘wathriel_  
_Aníran goreniassem_  
_Si ech usi……”_

 

 

 

Tegylwen makes the journey to see him.

“Naneth and her children have gone further east,” she tells him, “more and more of those elves are going – some of my people talk of moving that way now. My son, he is keen to go – he and his family – though my daughter says that Ithilien is all she has ever wanted or known.”

Their eyes meet, and they smile – so does history not repeat, but – echo.

“Ada,” she holds his hand, looks away, and he dreads what is to come, “Ada – are you content?”

He shrugs,

“As content as any.”

She looks, long and deep, and under the weight of that stare, he crumbles.

“What would you have me say?”

She sighs,

“The truth, Ada, that is all. Once before I saw you like this – and then – then I knew what to do, where to bid you go. Now, again, you have so much – you are so much – yet – the sorrow in your eyes is clear to me, though not yet to any other – but this time, this time I do not know what to say. Would you – would you have my elves build you a ship? Would you sail at last? Go to him – serve him beyond the Sea?”

Caradhil in his turn looks away,

“My service is not wanted there,” he says.

There is a long silence.

Quietly she says at last,

“But you – you have nothing now to do. You have built all that there is to build, more would be – foolish – and you know it. Any changes now must come from the Semphair themselves. In time all of us will sail – save those that fade – and though I am in no hurry, I can begin to feel the world change once more – our time, even our time will come. This has been the age of the Silvan – but one day, one day we too will pass into legend,” she sighs again, “but that is for the future, I think. Now though – now I am come partly to say to you – the Semphair now are afraid to innovate – no, not afraid – reluctant. They love you, Ada, and they do not wish to hurt you – but their hands are tied by your presence. Will you not – perhaps – journey? Go and see the lands in the east – see the animals – take those who are most devoted to you – and let Tinuwen and the daughters of Tinuwen rule here. Let some fresh growth into this Forest.”

Caradhil nods slowly.

She is right – as she is always right.

But it hurts.

Not to be needed any more – he has been needed somewhere, by someone for so long now.

“Ada?” she says, worried, and he – he makes himself smile,

“You are probably right, iel-nin, I – I will put things in order, make things ready – I have work that – no, I need not finish it. Another could. Yes. But – I will not travel with you, I think. It is long since I rode out alone – it would do me good.”

And they pass to talk of other things.

It is not many days until she takes her leave, and Caradhil holds her tight, touches her ears, and watches, watches as she rides away.

Then finds he must go to his study, shut the door, and – and sit quiet for a long while.

_“Pinrim naegrof trelû,_  
_Pinrim nîref……”_

 

 

 

“Doronlas,” he begins, “I – if I were to – if there were another ruler – would you stay, or sail, or – do you have –“ Caradhil stops. How can one ask – do you _have_ a life outside of work without seeming unbearably dismissive of the choices of another?

Doronlas smiles.

“That would depend on the ruler,” is the enigmatic reply, and then, relenting, “and, I suppose, on whether any of my – large – number of siblings, cousins, nieces, nephews, and so on, had elflings. There are usually,” laughing, “a few who need another pair of hands about. A few decades of such life would suit me, one of these days. Fortunately, if you think to travel, for I have been so associated with your rule that I think it would not be easy for any to take my advice and loyalty as true.”

Caradhil smiles, truly grateful for all the years,

“I could leave you a reference,” he says, only half-joking, and then something makes him add, “were I ever to contemplate moving on.”

He turns his head away, and begins to read the latest report from the outer reaches.

 

 

 

 

For the novelty of it, he rides out, alone. 

He looks at maps, and wonders about travelling.

He looks at pictures of ships, and the old ache comes back – what would he sail towards? 

A grave of a prince, and – and nothing more.

No.

He was born in the Forest, for most of his life, he has lived in the Forest – it is home – whatever else, he will not leave.

Besides, there will be a feast day soon.

Song and dance, wine and combing.

 

 

 

Caradhil sits among his family as the feast progresses, as the wine flows, as the combing groups or partners form.

He drinks, and laughs, he joins the talk, he leads the song.

He dances – he dances wild and fast, spinning and throwing the knives so that none may keep pace – he dances to show he is King, he is Silvan, he is – Caradhil.

He moves through the crowd, a word for every elf, a touch here and there, never too much, never – never enough.

He sits in his throne, above them, and he watches.

He watches it all, but somehow – somehow it means nothing anymore.

All he does, he finds, is look for a spark of gold among the sea of reds and browns.

There is none, and his life seems – without shine.

When he can, when the formalities are over, he leaves.

Tonight, one more time, he will seek the comfort of the room behind the door.

_“An ech usi……”_

 

 

 

 

Caradhil closes the door behind him, and looks at this room.

This room, this room which no-one else sees.

This room.

The King’s bedchamber.

Oh my King.

He does not weep, he does not cry out to the Valar to help him.

He does not weep, he does not cry out to the Valar to help him because he is Caradhil, Elven-King of the Realms of Eryn Lasgalen, Ithilien, and Lorien, ruler of the Union, most powerful elf in Arda. 

Besides, his elves may still be in earshot.

He will not hurt his elves, his family.

Not more than he must.

 

 

 

So long. So long it has been.

He approaches the bed, still laid out perfectly.

On it lie robes, jewels, crown. 

Not the crown he has worn so long, the other, the banquet crown. A crown more formal, more beautiful than any he could ever wear.

He kneels beside the bed, by the boots stood ready.

Ready for one who will never again come to this room to dress, to reverie, to pace in loneliness.

Caradhil lays his head on the bed, his face resting on his clasped hands, as he has knelt so often to find comfort.

 

_“An nidhin luthad ered ae aníral-nin…..”_

 

Oh my King.

I have tried so hard.

I have cared for your people.

I let no harm come to your sons.

I sent them to you.

I sent them with the jewels you gave your love, so long ago.

I sent them with their remaining child.

I have, over the years, sent all that wished to sail.

They will tell you all I have done.

And I will never know whether you can forgive me.

 

_“..Nidhin reniad ochui gaer…”_

 

A thought comes to him, a longing, and – yes, just this once, this one time – he rests back on his heels, he unbinds his hair. Eyes closed, the better to enjoy the illusion, he combs out the strands, and, for the first and only time in his life, he allows himself to weave into them the braids he has so wished to wear.

It feels – strange.

When they are done – and they are probably not quite correct – these are not braids one is supposed to place in one’s own hair – but – none will see – and – and it has been so long, so very long that he has wished to wear them – there cannot be much harm – not just this once – when they are done, he stands, and walks to the glass. He raises his eyes, and sees himself – himself as he might have been, as he wished to be, as – as were elves different, were elves as mortals are, he might have dreamt, hoped to be – and the longing, the longing is such that the reflection shimmers as he blinks away the tears.

For a long, long moment, he stands, and he looks, and he lets himself imagine that there is a truth in the image.

Loved, the braids say, loved, and vowed, and – and as though wed. 

They are the braids his prince wore, the braids he saw in Canadion’s hair – in the hair of many elves, these days. 

He looks, and he sighs, he turns away, and then – then he slowly begins to unbind them.

They are not braids he can wear.

He loves, but – it was not love returned.

It is but a lie.

He will not take refuge in a lie.

 

 

 

Braided as he has been these thousand years, or more, he kneels at the bed once again, head bowed once more.

Oh my King.

I will never see you again.

I cannot sail. 

I cannot bear the thought of seeing you golden and joyous and in the arms of your love.

I fail myself, that I cannot bear it.

What am I that I cannot rejoice that you must be so, must have been so these long years?

Love should not ask reward, love should not seek return; love should delight in serving, in giving.

I do. 

I have served you so long, I have given all I am.

I delight in knowing you are reunited, whole again.

I try so hard, but I simply cannot bear the thought of seeing it.

 

 

 

Oh my King.

I cannot go on.

I am so tired.

So tired of the work, the endless caring for these elves.

I am sorry.

I fail you, that I cannot keep on.

 

_“…..Nidhin garad calar-gin ad…….”_

 

Oh my King.

I am so alone.

I have not the hope of meeting one to love, one who could love me.

I have not the hope of reunion, for there is none who longs for me.

I have held on for my children – but my son is gone to his beloved, and needs me no more, and my daughter has her own life, she needs me not.

I – I am the last elf in this land who remembers your father. I am the last elf here who remembers all your rule.

Few there are now who were born in the Third Age.

And so this land becomes not merely Silvan, as I dreamed, but – new, a place of elves who drift from the lands and times of Men.

For all my power, I am alone here, alone among my people.

I fear that soon – soon I will begin to fail them, to be no longer the leader, the ruler that they need. I know who will, I know my House will do well by them, but what will become of me that day?

I have nothing here to live for, if I have not work.

I have nothing and no-one to sail towards.

I have none waiting for me in the Halls.

I am alone, as you foretold, as a King is alone, so you said once to me.

But I – I never wanted to be King.

And I ache.

 

 

Oh my King.

I will never see you again.

And you will not even notice.

I love you with all that I am, or have been, or could be.

And I never thought you would see me, never hoped for more than I had – you were as far beyond my reach as any star – yet – I love you.

Were elves different – then I – I would have offered you anything you asked. But for all my wishing, and longing, and striving – elves are not as other races are.

You are in the West, and reunited with your love, and joyous – and I am glad. 

But I – I am not even able to fade as an elf should.

I have carried my ache for so long, I have been alone so long, I cannot let it take my fea to Mandos.

I fail even in this.

 

_“……Nidhin carad paín ech aniral im.”_

 

Over the years, there have been times when Caradhil has been able to convince himself, almost, that he feels that touch of Sindar hand on his ears, in his hair, there have been times when he has found comfort here.

Not this time.

Tonight, the room is empty of all but himself.

Tonight he can let the tears flow, in silence.

Tonight he can take out his comb, so long carried, so often shared, never exchanged. The comb he longed to offer, yet knew would be rejected. His comb, so much part of him, used to such great effect so many times. Used to persuade, to comfort, to instil courage, to change customs, to avert war, to change the world. 

He looks at it one more time, and feels nothing but grief.

What is an elf that has never found one with whom to exchange combs, but a failure?

He breaks his comb in two.

Tonight he can take out his dagger, its ruby still shining in the blade, bright as it was five thousand years ago, when he traded a deer for this and a comb. 

That comb is long since gone, buried somewhere in Valinor, he supposes, along with his prince to whom he gifted it, and his prince’s beloved.

The dagger is still sharp.

Caradhil raises the dagger, then, with as little hesitation as if he was despatching a deer, he buries it in his heart.

The heart that broke long ago, the heart he longed to lay at his King’s feet. 

His King who left these lands so long ago.

 

_“…An nidhin luthad ered ae aníral-nin,_  
_Nidhin reniad ochui gaer,_  
_Nidhin garad calar-gin ad,_  
_Nidhin carad paín ech aniral im.”_


	26. Chapter 26

_“Thaun enedh-riw, thaun enedh-riw,_  
_Lais-gin gelin eldhenthaid…..”_

 

Caradhil walks through the Halls of Mandos, the Halls which by his action he is condemned never to leave. 

As he planned.

There would be no peace for him in the lands of the West, and so he will not go.

His King wants him not, and so he will not go.

By his action, even the lord Mandos cannot make him.

He sees Noldor, and they mean nothing to him.

He sees trees, beautiful trees – and his heart does not respond – and he knows himself cast out by his action.

He sees his parents – and they see him not – and he is glad that he need not confess all his failure to those two who loved him, and who he loved so. They see him not, cast out as he is by his action.

He sees friends, all his many dead, and he walks away without greeting them – and they do not call to him, so many times did he walk away in life when something better – someone new – called to him. They see him not, cast out as he is by his action.

He sees his son – his so-precious son – and he sees him not, so engrossed he is in combing and singing, with an elf – an elf Caradhil does not recognise, but knows instantly must be Caradhlas’ mother. He rejoices to see his son so happy, so at peace, and he is glad he need not confess his action to him. His son will never notice him, never see him, cast out as he is by his action – and his son will not feel the loss, so clear is his own joy.

But – oh to feel that. To love and be loved like that.

He does not weep, he is Caradhil. He holds himself tall, and walks on, as the lord Mandos bid him do.

He does not let himself ask why, show weakness.

He does not know what he is looking for, only the hope that he will know when he finds it.

_“Thaun enedh-riw, thaun enedh-riw,_  
_Lais-gin gelin eldhenthaid…..”_

 

He comes to a sunlit – seemingly sunlit, he reminds himself, not being one to take refuge in comforting lies – glade, and – there is an elf sitting alone, hunched in upon himself.

Afraid.

A Sindar.

A Sindar who looks up as Caradhil approaches him, a Sindar who half-smiles in recognition as Caradhil falls to his knees before him.

“Prince Thalion,” Caradhil says, and he hardly knows his own voice, so many tears would choke him if he let them flow, “why are you still here, still alone? Will you not go to your parents in the Blessed Lands, will you not at least join your kin here?”

A Sindar who reaches down and holds the hands offered in pledge of service, and answers,

“I am too afraid. I want only to stay here, here in the likeness of the Forest I loved – but – you are the first Silvan in all these long years to find me – tell me of the lands I knew. My brother passed me by – such dishonour I must have become to my family in my failure of skill. Yet – I am so lonely – it has been so many years – if you have aught you can tell me of my parents, my brothers, I beg you – sit with me a while, speak to me. Comfort me.”

And as Caradhil reaches gently to touch ears, to learn and be learned by this so-fragile one, he finds that he has again his comb – unbroken once more – and he is able at last – at last – to offer it and say,

“My prince, I would comb you, comfort you, stay with you from now until the world is remade, if that is what you would have. Thalion, eldest son of Thranduil, you are not remembered in dishonour, you were loved and missed – missed so very much. I served your father these long years, I cared for his people, I loved your brother as the son I thought I would never have – let me care for you now.”

His comb is taken, and another given, and the touch of hands on ears, hands in hair is so much to each elf, the song shared is so overwhelming, in this place where all have thought they would not feel that again, that it is many hours – days perhaps – before the other asks,

“What do your braids mean? They are not a style I have seen before – I would not offend you by asking – but – I cannot read the pattern, though I have learnt it and keep them as they ought be.”

Caradhil looks out over the golden head, and stares into the trees, as he searches for an answer.

“They are not the braids I wore in life,” he says, “they are – they are a style I think only worn here, here in these Halls. They show,” he swallows, for he does not know whether to be proud or pained, “they show a deep love, a true love, but a love not – not returned.”

The other reaches up for a moment, and they touch hands, before he says, 

“Then you have the advantage of me – I never felt love. I think I know not what it means. Perhaps – perhaps in time you will speak to me, and tell me, but – there is no urgency, here beyond death. Unless – have you not kin of your own that you would be with – who are you that you would give me all the care you have, all the time there is until the world is renewed, yet ask nothing from me?”

Then Caradhil leans his head down, and kisses, so gently, the golden hair his hands are already coming to know so well, and he says,

“I have kin, but they need me not. I would choose to care for you were there any choice – but – for me there is no choice. You remember me not, but I saw you when you were our prince, and the son of our prince. I am nothing, no-one, a Silvan, a hunter – I am Caradhil. And this I can do.”

And as the other leans back into his embrace, he finds that – although this is not the love of which he always dreamed, although this is not – not that loving for which he has so longed – that could never be in these Halls, that could never be with any save the one he loves so, the one who has never, could never, care for him – perhaps – it is enough simply to comb, simply to be needed so very much.

To care for one, and one only.

To care for the son of his King, care for him, try and persuade him of his worth, try and make him brave, restore him to his parents – and what if that leaves him, Caradhil, alone again? What of that?

Time enough for regrets and sorrow when that day comes.

For now – this is enough and more than enough.

To care for one, to feel needed, to serve his King.

This indeed, he can do.

_“Enthas ermin men guiad_

_A sa garntheg, sa garntheg, sa garntheg……”_

 

 

 

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mandos' opinion of elves who commit suicide is not mine. Tolkien was Catholic & his elves were, i think, supposed to be (even better than) mankind before the Fall - hence the conjecture that suicides cannot leave the Halls, I suppose a bit like Limbo? Caradhil is, of course, using it to achieve his own end - not having to come face to face with a Thranduil now happily reunited with his beloved wife.
> 
>  
> 
> Caradhil's songs:  
> A long time ago, his original song was a Sindarin-ised version of Tannenbaum, sung to the tune of The Red Flag.  
> In Ithilien, he changed to One Way (The Levellers).  
> During his years as Elven-King of Eryn Lasgalen, we have had,  
> Forever Autumn (from War of the Worlds)  
> Everybody Hurts (REM)  
> Dominion/Mother Russia (Sisters of Mercy)  
> and  
> Pride (Amy Macdonald).
> 
> The song of the marching Silvans in chapter 19 is (of course)  
> Do You Hear the People Sing (Les Miserables).
> 
> Many of the names of OCs do have a meaning, if you look hard enough - or can be bothered to - that being the nature of elf-names.

**Author's Note:**

> Semphair - lit. neighbours. Used to mean combing group, since within the Forest, within a stable community, one's combing group would be most often the elves one lived/worked near, with the exception, of course, of those who are vowed to one.


End file.
